


The Continuing Chronicles

by MDJensen



Series: Teacher Boys AU [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Depression, Education, Fat Character, Gardening, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Teacher AU, ace characters, and Athos wears sweaters of course, antidepressants, queerplatonic relationship (later chapters), teacherlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>The Chronicle of Secondary Education</i>. The boys fight on another day. Athos helps d’Artagnan through the trial of his father’s killer; Porthos helps Athos through the roller coaster that is Prozac. Aramis and Porthos help each other through everything else. (And students think teachers don’t have lives outside of school!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Marking Period

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R00bs_Teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/gifts).



> Well, I'm breaking my own rule here and posting the first chapter before I'm finished writing. It must be said, though, I've honestly just missed you all so much this past month, that as soon as I got back from my trip I wanted to jump back in. I don't think I emphasize enough how lovely you all are-- those of you that I communicate with one-on-one _and_ those of you whom I've only spoken to in the comments here... I really do appreciate you all. Your support has meant a lot these past months.
> 
> So anyway, have some more teacher!boys :) I will issue a blanket trigger warning that Athos' depression is a main plot of this fic, so if you feel like that's something you don't want to read much about, it's probably best you skip this. I will say that later chapters are much less bleak than this one, but this first chapter is still pretty dark.
> 
> That being said, I hope you will all understand how autobiographical a lot of this is for me. I'm not telling you to let me off the hook for anything-- please do speak up if you think anything has been mishandled (or is just plain bad haha)-- but a _lot_ of this is coming from me personally. Anyway. All right, on with the fic!
> 
> (Oh, also note that there is discussion of d'Art's father's murder, though nothing explicit.)

Summer ends early, that year.

They take d’Artagnan with them to the lake, of course; d’Artagnan acts like they’re celebrities inviting him to their Oscars party. Athos, though, is equally grateful. It isn’t that Porthos and Aramis don’t include him-- they do, in outings and conversations and cuddling and frankly everything but the kissing-- but they deserve a bit of time on their own as well. D’Artagnan and Athos give them this, for a few hours, almost every day. As two, they go swimming, drive to the nearest city and go to museums; they sit out on the beach, d’Artagnan sunbathing, Athos reading or sleeping beneath a huge blue umbrella.

They spend a full two week there in mid-August, as always. Athos misses therapy for the first time since he started in late June, a fact which he frets over until d’Artagnan, apropos of nothing, casually admits that he’s disappointed to miss his own sessions.

Athos takes a deep breath, lets it out, and says, “I actually do like Conrad.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes go wide; then he laughs and flings an arm around Athos’ shoulders. They’re on the beach. Athos smells cedar water and d’Artagnan’s deodorant, and his own SPF 70 sunscreen.

Therapy isn’t what he’d expected. It’s a lot less delving into his formative traumas and a lot more _how can you change the way you’re thinking about this_ , and that’s good, logical, he didn’t really want to curl up on a big leather couch and sob about his childhood to a pair of wire glasses and a clipboard anyway....

Except maybe he kind of did. 

He’s glad he’s going, though. It hasn’t helped-- at all, really-- yet, but it makes him feel like he’s on the right track, or at least on the right track to being on the right track.

And Athos does like Conrad. He’d worried he wouldn’t, worried particularly that Conrad would be younger than him. That’s how d’Artagnan made him sound, anyway: like a twenty-eight-year-old camp counselor type, with Buddy Holly glasses and really white teeth. He’s not. He’s in his forties, maybe early fifties, with not-grey, not-blonde, not-brown hair and tiny, friendly green eyes. And he’s patient. When d’Artagnan had recommended him, that sweaty, miserable day in Athos’ classroom, he’d made that very clear, and he’s right. Conrad is patient and gentle and utterly nonjudgmental.

Must be Athos’ fault that it isn’t working, then.

No, isn’t working yet. Isn’t working _yet_.

Summer itself helps, though. Porthos and Aramis are around a little less than they have been in the past, but with d’Artagnan around Athos is never lacking for company. The boy is over three, four, sometimes five times a week. Sometimes he teaches Athos how to garden, and sometimes he does the work for him, but either way the day tends to close with them sitting in the backyard together, drinking wine or whiskey or mojitos, once the mint starts to grow. D’Artagnan can talk, largely unprompted, for hours. He can also sit silently, comfortably, with his head on Athos’ shoulder, and just be: be a friend, be a little brother, be there.

And Porthos and Aramis are around. Porthos comes over to cook dinner and watch movies; Aramis comes, with Porthos or alone, and often brings wine.

Everybody seems to know, though he tells none of them. Tells none of them, until the day on the beach with d’Artagnan, when he admits, in a roundabout way, that he’s in therapy.

That he needs therapy.

That something’s wrong.

D’Artagnan hugs him with one arm; as ever he is utterly without reservation, and does not seem to mind that their bare chests are pressing together in public view. Athos does not mind either, honestly. It isn’t that he takes any specific pleasure from it-- does not feel that way for d’Artagnan, or anyone really-- but being close is nice. Being comforted is nice. And although Porthos and Aramis are both wonderful friends, incredible, loyal friends, d’Artagnan is quite simply his little brother.

Having a little brother is nice.

And all of this, combined with the tranquility of summer, brings Athos to a calmer if not a happier place.

But summer ends early, this year.

It’s the same day, in fact, that Athos tells d’Artagnan; it’s their last night at the lake. Porthos grills chicken, and peaches with rum sauce for dessert. Aramis and Athos tidy the house up while d’Artagnan loads everything they won’t need that night or in the morning into Aramis’ minivan.

They’re sitting around the firepit in the yard. Athos smells peaches and rum and citronella, and Porthos’ roasting marshmallows, because fruit doesn’t count as dessert, not really.

D’Artagnan’s voice is quieter than it’s been in months. He sounds young, almost timid-- almost like he did when he first stumbled into their lives, almost one year ago.

“Just so you all know,” he begins, “I’m, um. I’m leaving on Monday for California. I’ll, um, I’ll probably miss the first week or two of school.”

“Is everything okay?” Aramis prompts, though clearly it’s not.

“Yeah. Well. It’s for the, um. Trial. For the guy. That killed my dad.”

Nobody’s quite sure what to say; it’s Porthos who speaks first, huffing, “took ‘em long enough.”

“Yeah. From what I hear from, like, other family members, you know-- it’s not unusual for it to take a while. Timing’s pretty shit, though.”

“Have you spoken to Treville?” Athos prompts.

“Mm, he’s being really good about it. I don’t know what loophole he found exactly, but he says I’ve got two full weeks before I need to use any personal days. And since it starts, like, the week before, I seriously doubt it’ll get to that. But I will almost definitely miss the first day of school. So. Yeah.”

“It happens,” Aramis replies, lightly. “Not to be glib about the trial, you understand-- just about missing the first day.”

“Have you ever missed the first day?”

“Stunningly, I have not. But it does happen, sweetheart.”

“Look at it this way,” Porthos cuts in. “You’ll miss the chaos! Well, the start-of-term chaos, anyway.”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan agrees, smiling weakly, and reaches for the marshmallows.

They leave the lake the next day, Sunday. D’Artagnan leaves for California on Monday.

And summer ends, a full week early.

*

5:00am, and Athos rolls out of bed, puts his head in his hands, and tries to deny the undeniable: he’s exhausted. Already. One minute in, and he’s drained.

Professional Development was fine, yesterday. He and Porthos sat together for the meeting, set up their rooms separately, but then reunited for lunch. Porthos sent Aramis pictures of their food while Athos checked up on d’Artagnan.

Now it’s the first day with kids, the first real day of his eighteenth year of teaching, and Athos wants to go back to bed. Wants to cry. Wants a drink.

What a fantastic omen.

He sees Aramis’ text before going to the closet, which is good; he wasn’t quite sure that he and Porthos alone would be continuing the green on the first day tradition, though he’d hesitated to ask. But Aramis has sent a picture of himself in a bright green polo, with the caption, _didn’t forget!_

So Athos puts on brown trousers, a white dress shirt, and a dark green sweatervest (which will still be too hot, but he needs _something_ cozy). At school, he finds Porthos wearing olive green trousers and an off-black polo.

Last year was the first time in a while that Athos taught juniors, and consequently this is the first first day in a while that he greets some students for the second time. Luckily the only students taking him again are students he got on with well. That doesn’t mean there don’t look like plenty of clowns, though, and Athos is forced to pause going over the syllabus in multiple classes.

He and Porthos have last period lunch, though, which is always a plus. It means there’s only two periods left after lunch ends, and Athos relaxes at this thought-- relaxes even more when Porthos pulls out a Tupperware of cookies and passes it wordlessly to him. They’re chocolate chip. Nothing unusual, nothing elaborate, just unapologetic comfort food, and Athos quite willingly takes comfort in them.

Athos doesn’t bolt the minute school ends, as much as he’d like to. Instead he stays to organize a few things, and so is sitting at his desk when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He unlocks it and holds it to his ear.

There’s a burst of meaningless sound, then: “Athos?”

D’Artagnan is crying; Athos’ stomach does a flop, but he manages to keep this out of his voice. “D’Artagnan,” he says, calmly. “What is it?”

“D’you-- is this-- school’s over right? D’you have a minute?”

“Of course I do.” Athos gets up to turn off the classroom lights, move to sit where he can’t be seen from the door. “What happened? Is the trial over?”

“No. No. Um--”

“It’s okay,” Athos soothes. “Take your time, Charlie.”

D’Artagnan chokes out a sob. “I’m just tr-trying to ca-alm myself down. I think I maybe had, like, a panic attack or s-something because I cou-ouldn’t breathe and I felt like-- I felt like th-throwing up--”

“Where are you now?”

“’m just ou’side the room. ’m okay. I’m okay. They kicked me out but, like, the bailiff’s name is Tina and she’s re-really nice--”

“They kicked you out for getting upset?”

“No! They kicked m-me out because I w-went after the guy-- I went after the guy--”

“What?”

“I wanted t’kill him,” d’Artagnan sobs. “I j-just fucking-- I tried to, um, j-jump the blocker thingie--”

“Oh, _d’Artagnan_ , are you under arrest?”

“No! ‘m not under-- they just made me leave and, um, calm down. And Tina’s here. And she asked me if I wanted to ca-all anybody to help me calm-- calm down and I called you.”

D’Artagnan sobs again; the edges of Athos’ phone are growing slick with sweat.

“I wanted to kill him, Athos! I wanted t-to-- Jesus, just-- like, he’s here? You know? He’s _here_ and my dad’s _dead_ and that’s so fucking fu-ucked u-up-- I just wanted to kill him-- sorry, Tina, I wasn’t, um, _actually_ g-going to kill-- kill him--”

“Charlie,” Athos says, very evenly. “Are you standing up, or sitting down?”

“I’m s-sit’. Why the fuck--”

“In a chair?”

“On th’ floor.”

“What color is the floor?”

“What? What the f-fuck does it ma-atter, Athos--”

“What color is the floor?” Athos repeats.

D’Artagnan hiccups, loudly. “’s fucking blue! Happy?”

“Dark blue or light blue?”

A sniffle. “Dark blue,” d’Artagnan grumbles, after a short pause. “With red-ish flowers.”

“Carpet, then?”

“Shit carpet.” Another sniffle. “Like, the kind with no squish at all. The pattern’s fugly as fuck too.”

In the background Athos thinks he hears a woman’s deep laughter.

“I’ve always thought it was funny,” Athos says, voice still absolutely toneless, “that somebody somewhere went to art school and then got a job designing fugly institutional carpet patterns. No matter how horrid they are, _somebody_ must’ve designed them.”

The pause is much longer this time, and then d’Artagnan says, quietly, “what the fuck, Athos.”

Then there’s a rustle on the other end. Athos hears Tina’s voice again-- speaking this time, though he can’t make out the words-- and then d’Artagnan blows his nose.

“Neat trick,” d’Artagnan huffs, getting back on the line.

“You okay?”

“No, I’m very _fucking_ far from okay. But I’m not crying anymore.”

“Or getting yourself arrested?”

“Or getting myself arrested.”

“Do you want me to tell you about the day?” Athos offers, heart beating a little slower now that d’Artagnan seems marginally less frantic. Panic was never one of Athos’ own symptoms, but he has picked up some ideas, prowling around mental health message boards. He’s only glad this one actually worked.

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I just-- had a moment or whatever. I’m okay now, Athos. I’m gonna see if I’m allowed to go back in. Oh, she’s shaking her head. She’s saying five more minutes. Okay.” D’Artagnan heaves a tremendous sigh, and Athos can almost see his head falling back against the wall. “Tell me ‘bout the day.”

So Athos tells him about the day, tells him about the confusion and the heat and his new crop of students; he officially places into verbal record which kids he’s pretty sure he’ll hate by October, and which he’ll add to his list of Reasons to Give a Shit. He also reports about d’Artagnan’s own schedule, which he peaked at in the office in case the boy asked.

“We have lunch together,” Athos informs him.

“All four of us?”

“All-- three of us.” Athos hesitates, panicking for a moment that this will set d’Artagnan off again. It doesn’t. Aramis working in a different building this year is hardly equivalent to staring down the man who murdered one’s father.

“Right,” d’Artagnan replies, immediately. “Can we get dinner together? All four of us? When I get back?”

“Of course.”

“And, um-- would you mind picking me up from the airport Friday?”

Athos almost laughs. It really is the most deviously effective time to ask this question, and when he agrees, d’Artagnan adds that his flight lands at six in the morning almost too fast for Athos to understand.

“Mm, fine. Bratty puppy.”

“Thanks! And-- thanks. Athos. Thank you. I’m-- I can go back in now, Tina says.”

“I’ll see you soon, d’Artagnan,” Athos assures him.

*

Athos picks d’Artagnan up at the airport around six. He slips into the right lane, puts his blinkers on, and scans the crowd; he spots d’Artagnan, waves him over, then ten seconds later is caught up in the tightest embrace of his life. D’Artagnan hugs him like a drowning man finding land. They stand this way for a minute or two, until horns start blaring at them; then d’Artagnan grabs his suitcase, shoves it in the back, and hops into the passenger seat. He dredges for a tissue as Athos pulls away.

“How are you doing?” Athos prompts, quietly.

“Good. No, I am. I’m fine. Just-- it’s good to see you.” He finds a tissue, dabs his nose with it.

“Blow your nose,” Athos orders, navigating around a double-parked SUV. “No-- _actually_ blow your nose, d’Artagnan, for chrissakes, since when were you shy about that?”

D’Artagnan gives a soppy little laugh. Then he turns away, towards the window, and blows his nose loudly; he pauses a moment before doing it again.

“Thanks for getting me,” he pants, when he’s done.

“Of course.”

“No _of course_. It’s fucking early and I genuinely appreciate it. Really.”

Athos finds himself smiling. “Well, then, you’re welcome.”

“Um, I want to update you, and hear about school and all, but-- do you mind if I close my eyes for a minute? I didn’t sleep on the plane.”

Athos assures him that this is fine, and five minutes later d’Artagnan is dozing peacefully, head tilted back against the headrest.

It’s perhaps forty-five minutes back from the airport. By the time Athos parks at d’Artagnan’s apartment complex, the boy has gone beyond dozing and is fully asleep.

He wakes when Athos kills the engine, for which Athos is grateful. It’s barely seven; he could certainly have afforded a few more minutes before kicking d’Artagnan out and leaving for work. Still he’s glad the boy wakes up on his own.

D’Artagnan sits up, snuffling and blinking up at the familiar surroundings outside the car.

“You called out already, right?” Athos asks, when d’Artagnan seems awake enough. He’s already kind of screwed if he didn’t, 6:00am being the deadline, but Athos forgot to ask earlier.

“Mm. Treville took care of it f’r the whole week f’r me. I texted’im yesterday t’say I’d be back in Monday.” D’Artagnan yawns. “D’n’t even feel guilty not goin’ in today. Tha’s how tired I am.”

“I don’t think this would be a good first impression to give the kids, either,” Athos muses, because d’Artagnan’s long black hair is a rat’s nest and he’s wearing a t-shirt with a visible coffee stain near the hem. “C’mon. Bed.”

Athos gets out of the car, gets d’Artagnan’s suitcase, then waits while d’Artagnan drags himself out. It’s a cool morning. The school building will still be hot as hell, and they’re a good two weeks away from even the slightest possibility of sweaters; but here in d’Artagnan’s parking lot Athos feels the creeping-in of autumn.

D’Artagnan lets Athos roll his suitcase, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Athos recognizes d’Artagnan’s door but realizes now that he’s never been inside his apartment, so when the boy waves him up he comes with curiosity.

Directly through the door there’s a tiny mudroom with two more doors. D’Artagnan unlocks the one on the left and leads Athos through, into the entrance to his proper apartment.

It’s small; that’s Athos first impression. But it isn’t ugly; the walls are off-white, the furniture mostly tan, but there’s movie posters in proper frames lining the wall of the living room and beyond that, at the breakfast nook, the table is relatively clean. One of d’Artagnan’s roommates is also sitting there, eating cereal. He ambles over, pulls d’Artagnan into a loose hug, and Athos takes a moment to be pleased that they’re on better-than-neutral terms now.

“Um, Manny, this is Athos,” d’Artagnan says, pulling away. “Athos, Manny.”

Manny waves, and goes unobtrusively back to his cereal, leaving Athos and d’Artagnan to say goodbye.

There’s not much to say, so Athos just hugs d’Artagnan again. In the presence of Manny, he feels suddenly shy about hugging for too long-- but d’Artagnan doesn’t, it seems, because he clings right on again and doesn’t let go for a while.

“Shit,” he says, finally, when he wrenches away. “You’re going to work today. Sorry.”

Athos glances at his watch; it’s 7:18. “In June I won’t even be out of my apartment yet at this time,” Athos assures him. D’Artagnan flashes a sleepy grin. Then he reaches out and hugs Athos again, looser this time, but somehow even needier.

Manny has made a respectful retreat. Athos cradles the back of d’Artagnan’s head and murmurs quietly: “it’s all right, Charlie. It’s over now. Sleep, okay? And I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Under Athos’ hand, d’Artagnan nods; he peels himself away again and shuffles down the hallway. Athos lets himself out.

*

On Saturday Athos actually manages to sleep until almost seven, his body not quite locked into its school year wakeups yet. He showers, eats breakfast, does laundry. There’s mercifully little grading this early in September, and he’d finished it on prep Friday; the clock hits noon with Athos staring out the window wondering what to do with himself.

D’Artagnan has a sixth sense for such things.

Athos unlocks his phone when it vibrates, sees two texts sent back-to-back:

_can i come over?_

_i need to make sure you didnt kill all the tomatoes :)_

Athos smiles and writes back at once: _I did manage to keep it all mostly under control, but I’m sure the plants have missed you._

He puts on gardening clothes and waits in the living room. D’Artagnan, when he arrives, is similarly dressed, and looks just as tired as Athos feels. Wordlessly he solicits a long hug. Athos fusses over him for a minute, displeased when the boy explains that naps and jetlag collaborated to ensure that he didn’t fall asleep until almost five in the morning.

“When did you sleep to?” Athos prompts.

D’Artagnan winces. “I made myself get up at eight. I need to get back on east coast time, like, now.”

“Did you eat lunch yet?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flick away as he hums a negative reply. 

“Did you eat breakfast?”

D’Artagnan smiles sheepishly. 

Athos sighs. “Tell me you ate dinner.”

“I ate dinner. I’m not-- I was just too tired to go shopping yesterday.”

“Let’s have some lunch before we--”

“I’d really like to be in the garden for a little while,” d’Artagnan interrupts, straightening his head. “Athos, I’m hardly wasting away.”

Athos smirks. “Porthos might say otherwise.”

D’Artagnan’s smile fades to something gentler, more authentic. “I pinky promise I’ll eat you out of house and home, but I’ve been, um, missing the garden, and I’d rather do that first.”

But despite the boy’s words, Athos realizes that he’s here for one reason only. Even as they hunker down in the dirt and get to work, the big brother in him knows that it’s only a matter of time.

And it doesn’t take long. The pile of weeds is barely higher than the grass around it when Athos sees that d’Artagnan has frozen, one hand at the base of a dandelion, one hand at his belly. Tears drip from his lashes, splatter the ground.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos prompts quietly; still the boy doesn’t move.

Athos kneels beside him and pulls him close; he smells like dirt and sweat and tomatoes, and his shoulders and hair are warm from the sunshine. “It’s okay,” he whispers, as d’Artagnan hitches with sudden sobs. “It’s okay, Charlie, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

D’Artagnan sags against him, pent-up grief pouring from him in a massive wave. Athos holds him close-- holds him steady.

“’s over,” he weeps, breathlessly, again and again and again. “’s over, ‘s over, ‘s over--”

When d’Artagnan’s finished crying, Athos helps him to his feet, brings him inside, and makes him drink a glass of water. It seems to help a bit, at least to quiet his lingering hiccups. Then, while d’Artagnan goes to wash his face, Athos puts together some cold sandwiches, with homegrown tomatoes and basil, and fresh mozzarella he bought for just such a purpose. 

“How are you doing?” he asks, quietly, when d’Artagnan returns. 

“‘m okay,” comes the reply. At long last he’s stopped trying to impress Athos, and is not going to say he’s well when he’s not. He drops down at the table, chin on the edge of it. Athos brings over the sandwiches and more water, and stands beside the boy, putting a hand on his arm. D’Artagnan smiles, without lifting his head.

“Those look great,” he mumbles. Athos drops to a crouch and pulls d’Artagnan in for another hug; d’Artagnan hugs back, and clings for a solid minute before he finally forces himself to let go.

Athos hefts himself into his chair, picks up his sandwich. D’Artagnan does too, but only two bites in he puts it down.

“Your stomach’s upset because you’re hungry, you know,” Athos tells him, quietly.

“’s not my stomach; ‘s my head.”

“You probably got too much sun, on top of everything else,” Athos advises, pushing to his feet and refilling d’Artagnan’s water. “Want some Advil?”

“Not yet. It’s not terrible.”

“Why don’t you lie down for a little while?” Athos suggests, coming up to stand behind d’Artagnan and resting a hand on the back of his chair. “Take a cool shower first, if you think it might help.”

D’Artagnan cranes his neck back to smirk at Athos. “It’s not the sun. You do realize I’m from California, right?”

“No, I’d forgotten.”

“Don’t blame the sun. My body clock’s all fucked-- _and_ Monday’s, like, the first day of school for me, so I’m shitting myself over that.”

“My sincerest apologies for the implication that you could not bathe in UV rays twenty-four-seven,” Athos deadpans. “Please remember who you’re talking to.” He extends a forearm, pale in September as it will be in February, and d’Artagnan laughs.

“Apology accepted.”

“You really should go lie down, though.”

“I wasn’t arguing with that,” d’Artagnan replies, grinning his toothy grin, then sighing. Athos rubs his shoulders a moment.

“Finish your water first,” he prompts, and d’Artagnan does so; then Athos steps back so that the boy can move his chair. D’Artagnan gets to his feet.

“Conrad would approve,” he notes, popping his neck and back.

“Why would Conrad approve?”

“He always makes you drink a bottle of water after you, y’know, cry or whatever. He doesn’t do that with you? Oh, _uck_ , my head is killing me. Finish my sandwich, if you want it.”

Athos blinks, pulled back from the immediate situation and to the strange realization that the boy standing in front of him has actually wept-- multiple times, it would seem-- on the pale blue couch on which Athos himself generally perches and fidgets.

“Your neck is actually a little pink,” he calls after d’Artagnan, as he wanders down the hall. D’Artagnan does not reply.

Left alone, Athos picks the cheese out of both sandwiches then sits in silence and tries not to compare himself with d’Artagnan. It’s hard not to. Therapy is working for the boy, there’s no other way of seeing it, and some very petty little voice inside of Athos wants to know why it isn’t working for him as well.

Oh, right.

Because d’Artagnan is a cheeky, cheery, well-adjusted kid who just so happened to witness his father’s murder. He is fixable. He is not just a basketcase.

Athos frowns at himself as tosses the leftovers in the trash and carries the plates to the sink; that’s unhelpful, not to mention uncharitable. Honestly he doesn’t know what else d’Artagnan might have going on. It doesn’t really seem a normal coping strategy to move cross country, fall in love with a married woman, and befriend three queer guys each his senior by a decade or more--

So whatever. D’Artagnan’s fucked up. Athos is fucked up. The world is fucked up, and it’s pretty fucked up of him to begrudge a friend whatever progress he’s made just because Athos, frankly, has failed to make any.

*

D’Artagnan emerges sometime around six, with the guest room quilt wrapped, cocoon-like, around his shoulders. He shuffles to the couch, flops down beside Athos. With a sleepy little noise, he nuzzles his head against Athos’ arm until Athos lets him tuck up against his side.

“D’d’nt mean t’fall asleep,” he snuffles. He puts his cheek on Athos’ chest, his hand on Athos’ belly. Athos, in turn, slings an arm around his back.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, then clears the lingering gravel from his throat. “You needed it.”

“Ngh. Naps jus’ make me tired. An’ weird. Y’know when you wake up an’ it’s getting late an’ it feels like-- dunno. The world isn’ real or something.”

Athos smiles at that, though d’Artagnan cannot see. “For better or worse, the world is real. I can confirm. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Dunno. Am I staying for dinner?”

“I would hope so, at this point. How would you feel about Chinese takeout? It seems like something to eat when you’re not sure if the world is real.”

D’Artagnan looks up at him, frowning a little. “Wha’?”

Athos shrugs.

“I do like Chinese, though,” d’Artagnan continues, putting his head back down. “Haven’t found any good places out here ye’, though.”

Athos assures him that the place he orders from is good, then extricates himself from the couch to go get a menu; when he returns, d’Artagnan presses back against him instantly.

He’s a little shivery, his hand a little shaky when he points at the kung pao chicken. Athos wonders without comment if he’s sunburnt enough to have the chills, or if it’s a blood sugar thing-- or if maybe it’s just stress.

With d’Artagnan in his arms, Athos feels shitty for his earlier thoughts. He’s _glad_ that d’Artagnan can sit on Conrad’s pale blue couch, stare down at his blue-and-tan abstract floor rug, and cry; he’s glad that d’Artagnan can do what it takes to feel better.

“’m okay,” d’Artagnan says, laughing. Athos realizes that he’s hugging him quite tightly and eases up a little. “I want-- hm. It’s too fucking hot for soup. I want the chicken, definitely, and four eggs rolls, and a side of fried rice. Fuck it, and won ton soup. I’m starving. Do you have soy sauce?”

Athos orders the food, but when it arrives, D’Artagnan pays. Athos lets him, feeling slightly guilty but knowing that he genuinely wants to.

“I owe you a thousand dollars’ worth of take out,” d’Artagnan comments, as though reading his mind, as he brings the food over. 

“You don’t.”

“Maybe not. But you know, you should’ve let me pay you. Then maybe I would’ve kept seeing you as my mentor teacher instead of like, claiming you. Sorry. You know that you’re, like, officially my big brother now. Right?”

“You say that as if I mind,” Athos replies, and d’Artagnan grins.

Then he sniffles. It’s not a teary sniffle, just the kind of sniffle that happens to people with noses sometimes, but still the feeling of protectiveness that swells up in Athos is immediate. 

 _You’re my big brother now_ , he hears, and thinks: _you’re my little brother now._  

Then he most certainly does not hear Conrad’s voice, low and patient: _you need to let your friends be there for you, Athos._

 _It’s rarely ever_ only _chemical, Athos._

_You’ll have to deal with it someday._

_Why is it working for d’Artagnan, and not for you?_

“I had a little brother,” Athos blurts, and d’Artagnan’s hand, offering him a pair of chopsticks, freezes midway. “He died when I was fifteen.”

D’Artagnan’s silent a moment. “Fuck,” he says, eventually, and lowers his hand. “I didn’t, um-- I don’t really know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Athos replies; despite it all he is annoyed with this response but, twenty-some years on, he’s learned that all possible responses will annoy him. “I just wanted to tell you. Not to discredit-- what you said. About us. Just because-- I wanted to tell somebody.”

“Do you want to tell me more about it?”

“No,” Athos replies. “Did they give us forks? I’m shit with chopsticks.”

D’Artagnan unfreezes with a lurch, scrambles in the bag for a fork.

Athos might as well have used chopsticks, for all the rice that his trembling hand drops in his lap.

*

D’Artagnan stays the night. Athos wakes around eight in the morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of the shower running in the hallway bathroom; he wanders into the kitchen, pours himself a cup, and looks idly out the window at the garden. Their half-assed work from yesterday has been finished.

As he sits down with his coffee, he hears the shower shut off; a few minutes later d’Artagnan ambles in with shaggy wet hair, in what Athos guesses are his gym clothes.

“Good morning,” Athos greets, voice a little creaky.

“Morning.” D’Artagnan pours himself a cup of coffee and joins him at the table, thumping him on the back as he does so. Athos passes him the sugar, and d’Artagnan goes at it.

“Sleep okay?”

“Yeah. Back on schedule, I think. You?”

“Mm-hm.”

D’Artagnan’s phone has been left on the table. As they drink their coffee, he grabs it, unlocks it, and begins to scroll around on it. There’s silence for a few minutes. It’s broken by a quiet _um_ , and d’Artagnan slides it over to Athos.

“That’s my friend Justin,” he narrates. Athos takes the phone, sees a picture of d’Artagnan with another kid in his early twenties; they’ve got their arms around each other, but their smiles are softer than Athos might have expected. “He couldn’t get off work for most of the trial, but he came with me the first day.” He reaches over and swipes to the next picture. “That’s Abril and Jessie. Abril and I went out for, like, a month our sophomore year but we’re not weird or anything-- this is the beach closest to where I went to school-- oh. That’s, um. That’s my parents’ headstone.”

He gets up, comes and stands over Athos’ shoulder while Athos zooms in, takes a respectfully long look.

“It was the first time I’d seen it with my dad’s name,” d’Artagnan murmurs. “I remember when I was little, knowing the blank space there was for him, but-- I mean, how much sense does that really make?”

It’s a pale grey headstone, the name _d’Artagnan_ scrawled ornately across the top. (Athos tries not to shiver). Beneath is, a slightly faded inscription reads:

_Michelle-Marie Claudette_

_1961-1996_

And beside this, in sharper letters:

_Alexandre Sebastian_

_1956-2015_

Between their names, surrounded by a furl of carved flowers, what must be their wedding year: _1986_.

Athos zooms out before handing the phone back to d’Artagnan. The boy’s eyes are welled up yet again, but he sniffs a few times as he takes the phone, and forces himself to smile. Athos leaves him be. D’Artagnan puts his phone down and takes his coffee mug over for a refill; by the time he sits down again his eyes are dry.

“You didn’t have to finish in the garden,” Athos tells him, lightly, sensing the need for a change of topic. “I was going to.”

“I didn’t mind. I like it, honestly. And I know-- I never thought about it at the time but, like, I didn’t give you much of a say in this, did I?”

“If you were going to question your decision,” Athos muses, “the time to do it was probably before we planted the pumpkins and squash.”

D’Artagnan grins into his coffee. “Nah. No. I just, wanted to acknowledge how much I wrangled you into it. I dunno. I dunno if I ever told you the backstory but, like, when my mom died, my dad and I planted a garden. It helped. And I know you didn’t lose anyone. Your, um, your situation’s--”

 _Less serious_ , Athos expects to hear, and so startles when d’Artagnan says “more complicated.”

“I just thought it might cheer you up,” d’Artagnan finishes, with a shrug.

Athos can’t help but smile at this. “It does,” he replies, which is not a lie.

D’Artagnan gets up from his seat, comes to crouch beside him, and hugs him tightly. “You’ve really been there for me the past few weeks,” he whispers, into Athos’ neck. “Please don’t forget, I’m here for you too, okay?”

“I know,” Athos murmurs, scratching d’Artagnan’s back. And he does know.

The trick is acting on it.

*

Monday morning d’Artagnan wanders into Athos’ room around 7:00. Porthos gives out a noise almost comic with exuberance, and is instantly at d’Artagnan’s side, swooping him into a massive bear hug. D’Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut. He wraps his arms around Porthos’ neck and, quite without warning, his legs around Porthos’ hips; then he hangs there, teeth bared in a big blissful grin.

“Hey now,” Porthos laughs, bracing his hands on the boy’s back. “You didn’t miss me or nothin’, didja?”

“I _missed yoouu_ ,” d’Artagnan moans, and Porthos laughs again.

“How you doin’, pup?”

“”m good.” D’Artagnan dismounts, then comes over and hugs Athos, too, though he spent a large part of the weekend with him already. “Mm. Dinner tonight? I haven’t seen Aramis since the lake.”

Truthfully Athos can’t imagine anything more tiring than going out to dinner on the Monday of the first week of real classes-- but he can’t even say no to d’Artagnan under normal circumstances. “Tir Na Nog?” he replies, and d’Artagnan flashes another smile.

“Hell yeah! Okay. All right, I’ve got, like, an hour to get my classroom together. Wish me luck!”

He disappears, and Porthos glances over. “He okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” Athos replies, and he’s pretty sure that’s not a lie.

They don’t actually remember to ask Aramis until lunchtime, but of course he does not object. They meet after school at Tir Na Nog. Aramis runs at d’Artagnan in the same way that Porthos had, grabbing him like he’s been missing for years. Aramis being smaller, though, d’Artagnan does not jump on him. Rather he scoops him up, feet clearing the ground; Aramis yelps, is swiftly put down, then continues hugging d’Artagnan with his dignity mostly intact.

Then Porthos and Aramis kiss deeply. It’s not the kind of disgusting, face-sucking nonsense that makes Athos turn away-- though they’re fully capable of that, he knows from the lake-- but still it’s a little embarrassing. Not because it’s inappropriate. Rather because it’s just so _sincere_ , so honest and open and Athos is pretty sure he’d weep were he ever kissed like that, because, well, _because_.

Because it looks lovely. It looks like the kind of kiss that leaves you stronger, and weaker, simultaneously.

They get a booth towards the back. D’Artagnan pounces on the menu and orders like he hasn’t eaten in years; he pounces similarly on the food itself, when it arrives.

“Irish _naa-choos_ ,” he wails, selecting an exceptional one. “Oh my god,” he moans, biting into it. “Jesus _Christ_ , they’ve gotten _better_!”

It’s the first time they’ve all been together since the lake, so they set about catching one another up. Aramis misses them, of course, but loves his middle schoolers. Porthos and Athos don’t have much to say, their assignments being largely the same as last year’s, but they speak a bit on the kids they like and don’t like. Then Aramis begins asking d’Artagnan about California. For the first time he seems perfectly open to the conversation, and talks at length about his town and his father’s farm-- though he laughs a little when Aramis asks seems to make some unsafe assumptions.

“It wasn’t, like, an old red barn and a bunch of cows.” D’Artagnan’s mouth is quirked, eyes warm. “My dad had an MBA and a masters in plant science. It was more an outdoor production facility than a homey little whatever.”

“Are you tellin’ me,” Porthos gapes, “that you did not roll outta bed when the rooster crowed and milk the cows before the sun rose?”

“No!” D’Artagnan laughs. “Um, we had chickens, but that’s about where it ends. And we only had them ‘cause they were Maman’s. She was, I guess, more of what you’d think of as a farm kid, back in Gascony. And she married my dad, you know, this kind of big shot, and he moved her to California in ‘88 when a friend of his had a good business thing.”

Aramis blinks. “Hands up if you always kind of thought little d’Artagnan wore nothing but overalls and chewed on grass all the time.”

“Well I-- oh.”

“What?”

“You said grass and my first thought was like-- but you meant--”

“So not only were you _not_ a rosy, wholesome farm boy,” Aramis processes, putting a hand to his forehead, “you were a stoner.”

D’Artagnan shrugs. “It was less of a thing out there, you know. And I haven’t smoked much since high school.” 

“I’ve gotta ask,” Porthos says. “The tiramisu. Were you high for that?”

D’Artagnan bursts out laughing. “Is it more embarrassing that I wasn’t? Guys, I’m not a stoner. I mean, did my best friend and I own weed shirts in high school, yes. Did we wear them in public, no.”

“Nope,” Aramis replies, shaking his head. “You had a pony named Buckweed and you picked wild blueberries down by the crick.”

“Um. We baked our own bread, if it helps. Dad always said the American stuff was shit. And we gardened. But, like, a regular garden.”

Aramis looks at Porthos, then Athos; then he holds his hands to the sides of his head and illustrates, with sound effects, his mind exploding. Porthos laughs. D’Artagnan laughs too, then stuffs some more food in his face; he shows the picture of his parents’ headstone, lets Aramis take his hand for a minute, then laughs again when Porthos finds an errant French fry in their nachos.

The next day is a Tuesday, and Athos tells Conrad he’s ready to think about medication.

*

September 22nd rolls around, and Athos is 39. None of his old students come back this year, but the handful of kids he taught as juniors remember (or possibly are just reminded by Porthos), so he’s sung to twice. Porthos makes him a dark chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

It’s a Thursday, so they go out the following night instead; Aramis meets them after school at Athos’ favorite steakhouse, and the four of them eat and laugh and drink. Well, three of them eat and laugh and drink. Athos mostly drinks-- gets absolutely plastered, in fact-- and it’s not even ten yet when Aramis takes him home and gets him to bed.

Athos wakes up the next morning with a hangover and very little memory of the night. He’s fairly certain he didn’t throw up but he’s almost equally certain that he cried at some point-- possibly quite a lot, though he’s fairly certain it was after Aramis left.

Not _positive_ , but he’s hardly about to ask Aramis.

But he _feels_ like he’s cried. Once in a while, maybe every month or so, he stumbles upon a horrid marathon of tears that lasts fucking _forever_ and leaves him feeling weaker and sadder than before. That’s how he feels this morning.

He feels awful.

It’s been a week since he’d told Conrad that he was ready to try anti-depressants. He was a little miffed, to be honest, that Conrad did not immediately provide the information for a psychiatrist. Once he sat down at his computer, though, he found one quickly enough.

Getting an appointment, however, takes a little longer; the doctor in the area with the highest ratings does not have an appointment the very end of October.

Good thing Athos is used to waiting.

*

The faculty theme for Halloween this year is hippies. Athos does not even pretend to forget this year; he just flat-out refuses to participate. At least he tries to. Porthos arrives in bellbottom jeans and circular glasses, with a bandana tied around his small fro; he’s also wearing a homemade tie-dye shirt. He has, of course, made shirts for Athos and d’Artagnan as well.

D’Artagnan, who apparently knew about this, squeals happily and unbuttons his dress shirt then and there; he pulls his shirt on, then tugs out his big plastic peace sign necklace from underneath it. Athos, no less grateful but slightly less excited, dons his as well.

D’Artagnan’s shirt is the most egregious: a big circular spiral of primary colors giving way to a rainbow that spreads in all directions. Porthos’ and Athos’ own are slightly tamer. Porthos’ is a sunburst pattern, made using only yellow and pink; Athos’ pattern is more freeform, its colors only yellow and blue.

He changes back before his appointment that night.

It takes ten minutes for the doctor to agree that he’s depressed and write him a script for a starter dosage of Prozac. Ten minutes. Ten minutes, before which he’d waited almost seven weeks for an appointment.

Ten minutes, after which he waits another few days to fill the prescription. It’s November now, sweater weather, and in addition to cold it’s unusually rainy.

On Friday morning Athos corners Porthos before he can talk himself out of it. “Are you doing anything tonight?” he asks, not meeting his eyes.

“Mm? No. Was prob’ly gonna go bother Aramis, but we don’t have any--”

“Can you stay at my place tonight? Please?”

Porthos frowns. “Sure,” he replies at once, “‘s everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yes. Mostly. I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay. I’m gonna run home an’ grab some stuff, an’ I’ll be there around five, okay?”

“Okay. Yes. Thank you,” Athos says. It’s nearly a whisper, for he can feel how badly his voice wants to break.

*

Porthos knocks on the door at 5:07. The sound interrupts Athos’ pacing, but only for a moment; he goes back to it, circling the living room aimlessly, while Porthos settles on the couch and watches silently.

It’s awkward. And it’s only because he hates feeling awkwardness around his best friend that Athos finally sits on the couch, too, and makes himself speak.

“I’m starting Prozac tonight.”

Porthos processes this for a moment, then breaks out in a wide smile. “Good. That’s good, yeah? I’m proud of you, Ath.”

“Fingers crossed it even works,” Athos mutters back, not in the mood for praise. “I just-- I know I’m being paranoid, but I’ve been reading all the side effects and all. And I’m half-waiting for my liver to just instantly explode.”

“Your liver,” Porthos says, calmly, “is not going to instantly explode.”

“I know. I know it isn’t. I just--”

“You’re jus’ nervous, an’ you didn’t want to be alone for it. Sweetheart, that’s completely understandable.”

Athos forces a smile. “Now I know you’re dating Aramis. You’ve never called anyone _sweetheart_ before.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.”

“What made you decide to start Prozac?”

“It was-- just time, I think.”

“Can I hug you?” Porthos asks, still so wonderfully calm. Athos pulls a face at him but nods, and then Porthos wraps his arms around him and holds him gently. “You’re scared, but you’re tryin’ it,” Porthos whispers. “I really am proud of you, lovely.”

“Most people’s livers don’t explode,” Athos remarks, pulling away.

“They’d prob’ly take if off the market if they did.”

“But from what I’ve seen online a lot of people do feel shitty the first few days. Hence why I’m starting it on a Friday.”

“Shitty like--?”

“Headache,” Athos replies, shrugging. “Nausea. Drowsiness.”

“Good times. But it’ll be worth it. Why don’t you go shower and I’ll figure out something for dinner, okay?”

So Athos takes a shower. Standing before his dresser he contemplates wearing Porthos’ Les Mis t-shirt-- never quite got around to giving it back-- but that feels a little obvious. Instead he puts on his tie-dye shirt, freshly washed. From the smirk that Porthos fights to hide, this is no less obvious, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

Porthos declares Athos’ pantry unacceptably stocked. Still he’s made a decent chili from it, which they eat over baked potatoes; once the dishes are seen to, they put on _Fellowship of the_ Ring and curl up on the couch.

Porthos cries in all his usual places: Gandalf, Boromir, Frodo saving Sam. Athos passes him tissues and pats his knee and also teases him quite a lot. But he doesn’t cry himself.

By the time the movie ends there’s a rainstorm going-- an enormous, massive, assfucking _rainstorm_. Wind whips against the house and makes it creak. There’s no thunder but the sound of the storm itself is nearly as guttural, and in a weird way Athos loves it, loves that this will be his memory of the first night he took Prozac.

(Okay, he knows that’s a little dramatic; can’t bring himself to care.)

They’ve gone to bed by ten, his decided-upon med-taking time, and Athos takes the pill bottle over to his bed and sits down cross-legged.

He pours the whole bottle out, into his palm. The capsules are a pale, minty green that, all else aside, he sort of finds appealing. He wonders what would happen if he downed the whole handful. He’d be the Happiest Person in the World!-- or realistically speaking he’d probably just die. Or throw up or something. (He’s googled it, out of his typical morbid curiosity: it’s apparently quite difficult to kill yourself with Prozac.)

Still, he doesn’t want to.

For no good reason, mind.

But God help him, he really just doesn’t want to. It’s just not fucking fair, is all. And that’s petty and childish but it’s true, fuck it, it’s not fair that besides all the other shit he’s had to put up with that he should be cursed with a broken _brain_.

Athos forms a funnel with his palm, lets the pills patter back into the bottle, save one. He pops it in his mouth, screws the cap back on the bottle, gets the water from his nightstand, and swallows the Prozac.

*

Saturday morning there’s a collage of fallen leaves in the street. Athos wakes up early and sits by the window staring out at them; Porthos brings him a sweater and convinces him to go for a walk. Athos agrees, and goes out in plaid pajama bottoms, a tie-dye t-shirt, an orange sweater, and navy galoshes. They don’t really talk, but Porthos’ presence is warm and comforting at Athos’ side as they traipse around his sparsely-housed neighborhood, out onto one of the backroads, and down along its edge. The world smells like rain and sweet brown leaves.

They’re out a while; though Athos does not have his phone or watch, they don’t return until after ten, and he’s pretty sure they left before eight.

Porthos makes them coffee. As they drink it, the sky begins to darken again; soon it’s raining, though nowhere near as heavily as the night before. They finish their coffee. Then Porthos hones in on a big plastic bowl of leftover Halloween candy Athos never gave out. Athos waves him at it. Rather than eat it, though, he chops up all the chocolate and bakes brownies full of Reese Cups and Kit Kats and Milky Ways.

When they come out of the oven, Athos finds himself hungrier than he’s been in ages. He and Porthos eat two brownies each, and split a box of macaroni and cheese, but when dinner comes Athos still feels famished. It’s easy to talk Porthos into ordering pizza.

Between them they eat the better part of two pizzas over the course of _The Two Towers_. Porthos cries when Théoden visits the burial mounds. Then they finish the pan of brownies, and sit quietly and with full bellies, until Athos realizes he’s falling asleep.

Porthos eyes him fondly as he shakes himself awake for the second time in ten minutes. “Drowsiness?” he prompts, lightly, and Athos shrugs. He has no idea. No idea if he’s tired from Prozac or rainy weather or carbs or just life, but whatever the cause he realizes before long that he’s not going to make it to the end of the movie. He falls asleep on Porthos, wakes up at ten for his meds, then goes to bed.

*

Athos bolts awake and hurdles to the toilet just in time to vomit up four slices of sausage pizza-- and half a pan of brownies, and an ocean of bile-- in three ferocious gushes. When it’s over he topples backwards, head hitting the wall, and sits there panting. What floods through his body is not the typical miserable reluctance of illness but a sense of violation, legitimate indignation at the fact that he’s had to live through this.

What. The. Fuck.

 _Then_ comes the miserable reluctance, as another wave of nausea hits, and he flings himself over the bowl and retches up strings of spittle.

Oh. Here’s those side effects, then.

When he finally emerges, the lights are on, and Porthos is cross-legged on his bed. Athos wants to feel embarrassed, wants to feel annoyed, but all that he manages to do is slump down beside him and put his head on his shoulder.

“Better?” Porthos prompts, and Athos nods against him. “Good. Didn’t wanna be-- up in your space, but I kind of wanted to make sure your liver hadn’t exploded.”

“D’n’t th’k so,” Athos slurs. “I assume it’d be worse’n this.”

“Yeah, I assume it would. C’mere.”

Athos raises his head, feeling shaky, and sighs as Porthos’ thumb brushes gently along his cheekbone. Then Porthos tugs his eye wide open and peers in.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Checkin’ you for jaundice. That’s your liver, right?”

“You’re the one dating the biology teacher.”

“So I am. An’ you’re jus’ fine.”

“Not yellow?”

“Nope. No yellow. Lookin’ green right now, I’d say. You’ve got interesting eyes, you know that? Sometimes they are so damn green but sometimes they are so damn blue.”

Athos curls back up against Porthos. “My grandma said they changed with my moods. I think they change with what I’m wearing. I don’t-- _mm_ \-- don’t feel well, Porthos.”

“Bathroom?” Porthos prompts, uncrossing his legs.

“Ngh. Nothing left. I just don’t _feel_ well. My head hurts. My shins hurt. My-- face hurts?”

“Thought so.”

“What?”

“‘cause it’s killin ‘me! Ah!” Porthos voices a moment of faked laughter, and Athos, despite himself, cracks a smile.

“Think ‘m done,” he mumbles. His voice sounds sleepy and pathetic to his own ears, and apparently to Porthos too, because it earns him a kiss on the forehead.

“Still Sunday tomorrow,” he soothes. “Sleep as late as you needa. You want me t’stay with you?”

Athos does, but he makes himself shake his head; Porthos props him up in bed and pulls the blankets to his chest, then leaves him to sleep.

*

In the morning the whole episode seems more a bad dream than anything else. Athos’ stomach feels a little unsettled, but not horribly so, and he takes a shower and puts on a nice soft sweater before going out to the kitchen.

Porthos is grading at the table, eating a slice of cold pizza.

“Hey!” he greets, smiling when Athos enters. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Better,” Athos replies, starting a pot of coffee. Realistically, half a pizza and a pound of solid chocolate isn’t his typical dinner, so secretly he wonders if maybe he didn’t just make himself sick on junk. He’s probably overblowing the whole side effects thing.

“Good sleep, I hope? Long, at least, or were you just lyin’ there?”

Athos frowns, not quite sure what Porthos means-- until he catches sight of the clock on the stove. 1:27pm. “Oh,” he huffs. “Yeah, I was asleep that whole time.”

“Plans for the day?” Porthos asks, as though sleeping well past noon were nothing really to comment upon.

Athos points at Porthos’ grading, and Porthos laughs. “Yeah. Figured. Um, just so you know-- I did bring enough clothes to stay here ‘til Monday. Just in case. But don’t feel bad kickin’ me out whenever-- I can grade starin’ at you but I can also grade starin’ at my TV, if you prefer.”

“I don’t mind,” Athos replies. It’s a very mild answer for how much he’s honestly hoping Porthos will stay one more night, but then again perhaps he should get some alone time as well before the weekend is over. “Your choice.”

Porthos shrugs. “All right. Gonna at least finish this stack, then; I’m on a roll.”

Athos nods, and goes about making himself breakfast (fuck the clock) to the sound of Porthos’ pen scratching over test papers. He carries his bowl to the table and watches the proceedings in silence.

He eats a bit too fast, it seems, with his stomach still pissed at him from last night. The combination of breakfast and the smell of coffee leaves him slightly queasy. He puts his head in his hands and breathes deeply, following the spin of Porthos’ ink trail-- but the feeling does not abate.

“Shit,” is all Athos manages to get out before he stumbles to the kitchen sink. His stomach heaves, massively, and he throws up banana and oatmeal all over an unfortunate assortment of dirty dishes.

He feels Porthos comes up behind him, but he can’t turn to see. There’s another eruption brewing in his guts, and sure enough a moment later he spews a second geyser of vomit, getting some on the counter too this time.

Sturdy hands enclose his waist, and he swoons backwards against Porthos’ chest.

“This is kickin’ your ass, huh,” comes the gentle voice at his ear, and Athos nods weakly. Even that movement is too much, though. He throws up again, right down his front, and luckily it’s mostly liquid by now but still he doesn’t think he’s ever been so embarrassed in his life.

Porthos, however, is unfazed. He guides Athos two steps to the right, sits him down on the floor, and gives him a trash bag. Athos opens it, immediately gets sick again. He tries not to watch Porthos cleaning his mess out of the sink-- both because it’s humiliating and also because he thinks he’ll vomit again if he sees vomit.

Then he looks down, accidentally, sees the contents of the trash bag.

As predicted, he throws up again.

He’s not entirely sure he’s ever felt so sick in his life, even counting all the drunken charades he’s endured as an alcoholic and the stomach flus he’s endured as a teacher. This, this is the be-all, end-all. He’s sitting on the floor of his kitchen, back against the door of the stove, holding a trash bag two inches from his lips because he’s afraid to move it any further, too tired to keep his eyes open but too nauseous to close them.

A few minutes later, Porthos kneels beside him. He wipes a damp paper towel over his mouth and chin, saying nothing; then he sits at Athos’ feet. A long, long time later, Athos lowers the bag. Porthos takes it from him, ties it off and throws it away, and puts a fresh one within Athos’ reach.

“I can’t do this,” Athos whispers.

“Wanna try to get to bed?”

“Porth’s, I can’t do this.”

“That’s a big-ass decision to make, feelin’ as shitty as you do.”

Athos runs out of energy to speak, then. Porthos sits silently by for a few more minutes before pushing to his feet and returning with a blanket. He tugs Athos’ sweater over his head. Then he wipes another damp paper towel over Athos’ chest before coaxing the blanket around his naked shoulders. He disappears another few minutes, then comes and sits beside Athos.

 _Too close_ , Athos thinks dizzily; Porthos’ body is hot and smells like pizza, and Athos shoves weakly at the blanket that encloses him. Porthos removes it. Then he’s too cold-- then too hot again-- then he grabs at the empty trash bag and retches into it, bringing up nothing but spittle. Salt water leaks from his eyes and nose.

“’sokay,” Porthos soothes, gently. “’sokay, Athos, you’ll feel better soon. You’ll feel better soon. Just hang in there for me.”

Time passes. Athos must sleep, because the shadows on the floor are skating too quickly, and the back of his head begins to throb from leaning against the oven door.

“Wanna try bed now?” Porthos asks, eventually. Athos can’t even bring himself to nod-- just holds his hands out and lets Porthos get him to his feet.

Braced against the wall, he stumbles to his bedroom. His bed is soft and a little overwhelming but it smells familiar, and Athos crawls into it, Porthos’ hands on his waist. He curls up at the edge. When he looks down he sees that there’s a bucket on the floor, and a towel under the bucket, and that makes him feel safer somehow.

It’s dark out when he wakes. Porthos is reading, in the chair by the window, and comes over when Athos gives a short moan.

He perches carefully on the bed. “How’re you feelin’?”

How _is_ he feeling?

That is a fucking gigantic question.

“Still sick t’your stomach?” Porthos prompts, and Athos is grateful for the question being narrowed down. He nods, once.

“Just as bad?”

Athos thinks a moment before shaking his head. His mouth tastes like skunk and vinegar and death, and if Porthos’ intentions are to get him some food he’ll risk throwing up again for a momentary respite from the foulness. Besides, it really isn’t just as bad. Bad, but not just as bad.

“Good. Okay. You should drink somethin’, if you think you can. An’ you’ve gotta take your-- you’ve gotta take your meds. ‘s almost ten. Wanna try a li’l food, while we’re at it?”

Athos keeps down the Prozac and some water, then some ginger tea, then some applesauce. They get cocky, then, and try some Ritz crackers. These don’t sit well at all, and Athos ends up grabbing the bucket and hugging it to his chest-- though in the end he doesn’t get sick again.

Porthos gets into bed with him, pets his hair as his stomach settles. Finally it does, and he puts the bucket down, but Porthos stays with him-- stays, dragging calloused fingers through his mop of tangles as he once again drifts to sleep.

*

Monday morning Athos wakes to his weekday alarm.

The first thing he realizes is that he isn’t nauseous.

The second thing he realizes is that his head hurts. A _lot_.

The third thing he realizes is that Porthos is nowhere in sight, and he hears the shower running in the hall bathroom.

He gets out of bed, stepping carefully. Just as he does so, the shower cuts off; this makes his decision for him, and he goes into the master bathroom and showers himself. Though it’s been less than twenty-four hours since his last, he feels horribly grimy. Copious vomiting will do that, though, he thinks, and besides that makes cleanliness feel all the better.

In the kitchen, Porthos has made toast and is scrolling on his phone. “Hey,” he greets, quieter than he was yesterday. “You’re dressed. How you feelin’?”

Athos shrugs and slumps down at the table.

“All right, rephrase: you feel like pukin’?”

Athos shakes his head.

“Okay. Good, that’s good. You feel like havin’ some breakfast?”

Athos shakes his head at that too, and makes a face for good measure.

This, apparently, is where Porthos’ seemingly-endless patience finally ends. He stops asking questions then, and goes about his own morning business, finishing his toast then brushing his teeth, coming back from the bathroom with his bowtie tied.

“If you don’t need anythin’, I’m gonna head out. Take advantage of bein’ so close, y’know.”

Athos does not reply to this, at least not directly. Instead he sighs and grunts, “I think I might call out.”

“So call out,” Porthos replies, unruffled. “Careful, though, it’s almost six.”

“I shouldn’t call out.”

“So don’t call out.”

“Should I?”

Porthos sighs too now. “I dunno, Ath. You’re the one that knows if you need it. You were pretty damn sick yesterday, but I know you don’t like to.”

“I think I need it.”

“So call out. You haven’t missed any days yet.”

“It’s only just November,” Athos whispers. His brain feels like there’s lighting slicing through it.

“You’ve got-- eight minutes to call the hotline,” Porthos advises. Then he leaves.

As the front door closes Athos puts his head down on the table and tries not to cry.

He very profoundly does not want to go to work. His headache is only mounting, and he cannot bring himself to imagine the agony that a chorus of shrill teenage voices will add. He’s made it through days with headaches before, though. To call out so early on in the fight seems cowardly, and an ill portent, and his strange superstition is the only thing strong enough to rouse him from his chair.

He dresses, gets his laptop bag, and goes to work.

He doesn’t go by Porthos’ classroom, not because he is annoyed with Porthos but because Porthos is probably annoyed with him-- and deserves a break from him, even if he isn’t. D’Artagnan comes by, though, of course. He babbles on for a little while before realizing that Athos doesn’t feel well; then he feels his forehead and offers Advil and then does exactly what Athos wants (and does not want) him to do.

He texts Porthos.

By the time Porthos gets to Athos’ classroom it’s almost eight; there’s noise in the halls from other teachers and early morning clubs, and each separate footstep is a dagger in Athos’ brain. D’Artagnan scurries out when Porthos tells him to. Then Porthos crouches at Athos feet, touches a hand to Athos’ cheek, and calls him some creative combination of _stubborn_ and _stupid_ and _bastard_ that Athos doesn’t quite process. He digs through Athos’ desk, finds a DVD, leaves it by the Smartboard remote. Then he hefts Athos’ laptop bag on one shoulder, Athos’ own arm around the other, and leads him to the office.

Porthos props him against the mailbox counter and knocks on Treville’s door. The office is thankfully quite empty, no students in sight and only one other teacher, who seems to give approximately no shits about what’s going on. Thank fuck.

“LaFere’s sick,” Athos hears Porthos say, while he grips desperately at the counter with sweat-slicked fingers. “Pretty bad. Gotta take ‘im home.”

The captain must agree, though Athos doesn’t hear it, because a moment later Porthos is taking his arm again and leading him out of the office, out the main entrance, and across to the parking lot. Athos shakes with relief as he slides into Porthos’ passenger seat.

The sound of wheels on road hurts, but nowhere near as bad as the sounds of the school; Athos closes his eyes and forces his jaw open, gasps at air through his open mouth.

“You gonna puke?” Porthos asks, calmly.

“No.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“My head,” Athos moans, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Porthos, my head fucking _hurts_.”

“Migraine?”

“No. You know, yes, but-- not actually.”

Apparently Porthos has stumbled upon a yet-untapped reserve of patience, because he reaches over and touches a hand to Athos’ shoulder. “Shoulda made you call out,” he muses. “Sorry, lovely.”

“The fuck’re you sorry?” Athos mumbles. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry, Porthos.”

“ _Shh_ ,” Porthos says, and a minute later is pulling into Athos’ driveway.

Athos makes it halfway across the lawn before he staggers-- actually staggers. Porthos gets an arm around his waist before he can fall, and holds him steady. “How you doin’?” he murmurs, letting Athos lean against him.

“Dizzy,” Athos whispers. “All’f a sudden.”

“You want me to carry you?”

Athos actually manages to smile at this, the proximity to _home_ offering a little comfort. “No. I do not want you to carry me, Porthos.”

He feels a hand at the back of his knees.

“ _Porthos I will fucking throw up on you if you try to carry me so help me god_ \--”

“You threw up on me yesterday,” Porthos reminds him, cheerfully, but doesn’t-- thankfully-- pick him up. “Are you feelin’ sick again?”

“No. I just really don’t want you to carry me.”

So Porthos doesn’t carry him, but he certainly does brace him, over the threshold and down the hallway, into the bedroom to the edge of his unmade bed. As Athos strips Porthos finds the bucket from yesterday and sets it by the bed.

“I don’t actually have a migraine,” Athos reminds him, feeling irritable.

“Mm-hm. An’ your stomach’s just been so damn cooperative as of late.”

“‘m not nauseous.”

“Humor me,” Porthos says, firmly, then: “get some rest, Athos. I’ve got my spare key; I’m comin’ by to check on you after school, okay?”

“Okay,” Athos murmurs.

“You need anythin’? Water or anythin’?”

“No,” Athos whispers, burrowing under the covers. “’m fine. Thank you, Porthos.”

Fingers ruffle his hair, then his bedroom door closes.

*

Athos sleeps until one or so, then gets up and eats his first real meal in almost two days. It sits fine. His head is throbbing, still sizzling like a movie monster’s, but all things considered he’ll take headache over nausea any day.

He glances at the clock, thinks about where in the schedule his kids are. It’s his AP class now, and instead of prepping for their exam they’re watching whatever movie Porthos dredged out of his desk.

Athos goes back to bed.

Treville used to talk about teaching like a war, he thinks, drowsily, as he falls back asleep. It seemed dramatic (and therefore a little thrilling) when he was twenty-one. Depending on the context they were at times the _front lines_ and at times the _last defense_ , but always they were fighting, _fighting_ , ignorance and apathy and poverty and all that other shit. And Athos, bright-eyed Athos, felt the solider. Embraced his duty.

Would never have thought with such indifference about a wasted day of class.

Being depressed is honestly really depressing.

*

Athos just can’t sleep anymore, and so when Porthos finds him he is sprawled in bed staring at the ceiling, swishing one leg back and forth over the sheets just to feel the fabric on his skin.

“How’s your head?” Porthos asks, without preamble. Athos stops moving his leg, then starts again.

“Feels like it’s just come out of the dryer in winter.”

“Staticky?”

“Shocky.” And honestly, there’s no better way to describe it. He maintains, though, that headaches are a bit closer to his average than GI crap, so he’s dealing with it better than he dealt yesterday.

“You’ve always been shocking,” Porthos tells him. Then, with no attempt at subtly, he goes to the bucket by the bed and peers inside.

“I didn’t throw up,” Athos informs him, pushing himself up to a sit. “I told you I wasn’t nauseous.”

“Mazel tov,” Porthos replies, calmly. “You eat lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you have?”

“Soup and a sandwich.”

This meets Porthos’ approval (though Athos has the distinct impression that Porthos was expecting it not to).

“How you feelin’, um, otherwise?”

“You mean am I any less depressed?”

Porthos nods; Athos shrugs. He’s been asking himself the same question since approximately five minutes after his first dose.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“It’ll take time,” Porthos assures him, and Athos shrugs again; logically he knows this, but it’s sort of a cold comfort when the side effects had no problem beginning pretty much immediately.

He can’t stop himself saying as much.

Porthos nods in understanding. “You know, in the army sometimes,” he begins, then freezes. Athos regards him curiously; he rarely discusses his time in the military. He shakes himself and starts again. “Look, sometimes-- a snake don’t snap ‘til you poke it. It’s there, an’ you don’t want it there, but you don’t see its _violence_ until you actually go against it. You’re not just fightin’ the Prozac, love. You’re fightin’ the depression, too. Fightin’ your own brain. You think you’re bein’ weak somehow. But this ain’t a cakewalk.”

“I know,” Athos mumbles, and suddenly it’s all he can do not to draw his knees to his chest and rest his chin on them.

“Hey,” Porthos murmurs, voice going soft. He perches on the edge of the bed, kicks the bucket over so that it’s upside-down, and puts one foot on it. “Just an idea, and feel free to say no. But-- would it help if I stayed a little while longer? A week or two, whatever.”

“I don’t need you to--”

“I didn’t ask if you needed me to,” Porthos replies, a little sternly. “I asked if it would help. I’d give you your space an’ all, an’ you could kick me out whenever-- just thought for the next coupla weeks it might be nice havin’ somebody there. I’ll make sure you eat an’ all. We’ll watch movies. Go for walks. I’m not gonna be offended if you say no, lovely. But I also swear I am not gonna be put-upon if you say yes, okay? So-- do you want me to? Stay with you for a little while?”

His answer isn’t one he can give while looking Porthos in the eye, so he lowers his head, stares at his feet. “Yes. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Listen, lemme head home tonight, do some laundry an’ shit, an’ I’ll come over after work tomorrow. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Athos half expects Porthos to grab him up and hug him or something, but Porthos knows him too well for that, and allows him privacy in this delicate moment. He merely pats Athos on the shoulder and leaves.


	2. Second Marking Period

The headaches last a few more days.

Then Athos sleeps.

And sleeps.

And sleeps.

He leaves school at 3:15, gets home by 3:25 at the latest, and naps on the couch until six or so, when he gets up to eat dinner. Then he and Porthos put a movie on. By eight Athos has passed out, either on Porthos’ shoulder or in Porthos’ lap, and whenever Porthos feels like poking him awake is when he finally drags himself to his bedroom, and sleeps again until his alarm.

An entire week passes like this. And this is, Athos thinks, the only justification for how he really doesn’t notice that Porthos has been living with him for almost two weeks until Porthos has been living with him for almost two weeks.

Porthos is nothing short of an angel. Athos cannot remember the last time since starting Prozac he actually looked after himself or his house-- and of course, there had been instances of neglect before the meds too. And now he sleeps twelve hours a day. But somehow the laundry still gets done, and dinner still gets made, and the mail gets taken in, and really the house is tidier than ever.

Even once he’s realized it, he still takes a few days to feel bad about it.

But when the guilt hits, it hits all at once; it’s the first day he hasn’t crawled through like a legless zombie, and Athos uses his newfound energy to fret about how much of a burden he’s been on his friend.

He still goes home at 3:15. Instead of falling asleep, though, he cleans the already-clean kitchen, folds the laundry in the dryer and sticks a new load in the washer, and orders from Porthos’ favorite pizzeria for dinner.

It’s a little before five when Porthos comes in. The look of surprise on his face is almost comical, but it softens to a smile as he takes in Athos, currently sitting on the couch sorting through junk mail.

“Look who’s up and about,” Porthos remarks, depositing his laptop bag by the door. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Awake.”

“That’s a good change. I’d forgotten what color your eyes were.”

Athos tries to smile; doesn’t do a very good job. “Porthos-- thank you. I mean-- you’ve looked after me-- and this _place_ \-- so much--”

Porthos’ eyes go to the floor, and he shifts a little on his feet. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles.

“No, honestly, I understand I’ve basically slept through November but, for the first time today I’m looking around and thinking, I don’t think I’ve washed a dish in weeks--”

“You have. You were probably sleep-walking, but you have.”

“You’ve done everything--”

“Hey, you weeded the garden. I don’t touch that.”

On one hand Athos realizes that Porthos doesn’t want to be thanked anymore; on the other hand he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t get all this gratitude out, he’s going to bust open. Or more realistically, cry.

“I got pizza. From Stefano’s. It know it’s a little early for dinner but I figured--”

“Mm?”

“Well. I’m alive now. And I didn’t want to-- that is, if you wanted to go home tonight--”

“Oh yeah.” Porthos laughs. “Think I’m startin’ t’forget I don’t live here.”

Athos tries not to wince. “I don’t-- want to take up any more of your time--”

“Take up my time?”

“Don’t you have to go-- kiss your boyfriend or something?”

“I kissed my boyfriend two days ago,” Porthos replies, with a shrug. Oh right, Athos thinks: on Tuesday night he saw Conrad, then came home and fell asleep on the couch _alone_ , not with Porthos. It was still Porthos who eventually coaxed him to bed, though, which must explain why he forgot.

“We’re in something of a bind because I realize that you want me to shut up but I just want you to understand how deeply I-- appreciate-- appreciated--”

Porthos huffs a laugh. “I didn’t mind, lovely. Honestly. You know-- you are well aware-- that you are my _best goddamn friend_. I _want_ to help you. C’mere.”

Porthos plops down beside him and envelopes Athos in an enormous embrace. Athos sinks into him, sinks a little into the crack of the couch too, so that he really does feel small, really does feel like he’s snuggled up into a little nook somewhere. A Porthos nook. A warm, nice-smelling nook that keeps him calm and keeps him safe. The guilt recedes, somewhat.

 _Bad idea_ , Athos thinks up at Porthos; _now I’ll never even let you stand up._

But he does. He lets himself stay there for a minute or so, then wriggles out; Porthos lets him go at once.

“Really, though. Whenever you want-- I mean, I’m assuming you’ll stay for dinner, and hoping so because I ordered two pies-- you can. Um. I don’t want to hold you captive here.”

“Jesus, you’re kind of easier to take when you just put your head in my lap and fall asleep.” Porthos smiles. “Actually-- well. I didn’t wanna volunteer your place or anythin’, but I was thinkin’-- we should do Thanksgiving together. The four of us. Pup’s not goin’ nowhere, an’ Aramis’ll see his family for Christmas so I think we could convince him. I thought maybe I’d stick around ‘til then. We can get things ready together.”

“I’d like that,” Athos replies, automatically. For a brief moment he has a pleasant image of turkey and pies and mulled wine-- but it crumbles, breaks apart in his guts as he realizes why Porthos has suggested this. Generally they don’t pay much attention to Thanksgiving. But this year Porthos wants to have Thanksgiving together because this year Porthos will be having Christmas somewhere else. Will be having Christmas with his boyfriend’s family.

Will _not_ be having Christmas with Athos, for the first time in six or seven years.

He swallows this down. Porthos has just spent the better part of a month all but wiping his ass for him, and certainly does not owe him anything.

“I haven’t cooked a good Thanksgiving since-- Jesus, I don’t know,” Porthos is saying. “An’ I have never actually cooked a turkey, so that can be your job. Ham an’ sweet potatoes’ an’ mashed potatoes--”

“Any other potatoes you’d like in there?” Athos forces out.

“ _Cranberry_ _sauucce_ ,” Porthos sings, grinning. “If that’s-- I don’t wanna just coopt your kitchen.”

“You’ve been putting it to better use than I have.”

Porthos grins. “Oh, you have no idea. I’ve tried like four new recipes on you an’ you haven’t even noticed.”

“So, you’re okay-- staying until then?”

“Let’s agree that I’m okay stayin’ ‘til then an’ you’re okay with me cookin’ Thanksgiving in your kitchen. Right? Like. Let’s just agree that we’re okay, okay?”

There’s still some guilt, mixed with some panic, but Athos relaxes, just a little. Porthos is staying another week. Porthos is not leaving right this second-- neither is he leaving tonight or tomorrow.

And this is what he needs to focus on, not Christmas.

*

The next day is Friday. Porthos goes out with Aramis but Athos curls up in bed and falls asleep googling Thanksgiving side dishes.

On Saturday they go shopping. Porthos in a supermarket is like a kid in a toy store; wild ideas come freely to his mind and out of his lips around every corner. Their list is already half-meaningless three aisles in. But Athos can’t be mad, can’t be anything but charmed by the enthusiasm and sheer _thought_ that Porthos is expending on the task at hand.

Monday and Tuesday are less than stellar. At school the kids are in full pre-break mode, noisy and restless and ready to argue at the drop of a hat. And this belligerence may be somewhat catching. On Tuesday night Athos finds himself furious at Conrad for no particular reason-- though in the moment it seems there are dozens of reasons-- and when he gets home he brushes past Porthos and stands in the shower until the water goes cold, just trying to reign himself in.

But on Wednesday, things look up. School ends at noon, and Athos and Porthos flee home, shower, put on comfy clothes and cheery music, and set to cooking.

As the day wears on, side dishes and desserts spread across the kitchen island. There’s mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and broccoli and mac and cheese, cranberry sauce and corn bread and cookies and pecan pie.

With just enough sunlight left, Porthos goes out to the garden. He comes back with the loveliest of the pumpkins and sets it at the table for them both to admire. Tomorrow all that’s left to do is make the turkey, and turn the pumpkin into a pie.

It’s midnight by the time they finally cram the last aluminum pan into the fridge, too late to fall asleep on the sofa together before bed. He could ask Porthos to stay with him, Athos knows, but doesn’t. Instead he gets a long hug and contents himself to replay their hours together in the kitchen to calm himself as he drifts to sleep.

*

They’re still in pajamas when d’Artagnan arrives the next morning. He curls up on the couch and watches the parade on TV while they get ready for the day, then he and Athos hover around Porthos as he carves up the pumpkin and sets the chunks to boil on the stove.

Then it’s time to stick the turkey in the oven. Of the three of them, nobody has ever cooked a turkey, and there’s a full twenty minutes of google searches and half-informed debates before they finally get the thing in there.

Then both the turkey and the pie need to be left alone for a few hours. Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan lounge in various positions in the living room while slowly the house fills with the smell of Thanksgiving dinner.

Aramis comes over around three. Porthos has gone out on a possibly-futile quest to find an open store at which to buy apple cider, so Athos and d’Artagnan play tour guides as they show Aramis the spread that is 75% his boyfriend’s creation.

Aramis moans, taking in the array. “Tell me that’s real pumpkin pie. Like, cut up a pumpkin and made a pie with it pie.”

“And the pumpkin was from my garden.”

Aramis bursts out laughing. “The famed garden. I’ve never seen it.”

So they lead Aramis out back, and the three of them stand marveling at the pumpkins and squash, bright against the dark brown earth.

“Our baby farmer,” Aramis says fondly, slapping d’Artagnan on the back, then adds, “our grumpy old farmer,” and grins at Athos.

D’Artagnan begins narrating the planting process. Athos, having witnessed it personally, lets his eyes wander distractedly instead-- and sees Porthos creeping from the house.

He approaches them with a finger held to his lips. His footsteps are muffled by the grass and nearly lost beneath the noise of d’Artagnan’s chatter, besides. Athos obediently ignores him.

Porthos creeps closer and closer to his boyfriend, mouth smirking, eyes lowered in concentration and mischief-- he’s right behind Aramis now, and Aramis still hasn’t noticed, and--

The next thing that happens is Aramis pitches forward, balance lost.

Porthos catches him, clumsily but efficiently, and Aramis bursts out laughing.

“Your belly bumped me!” he howls. “Bumper car belly! _Por_ thos!”

Porthos, for a moment, is visibly mortified. But then Aramis rights himself, spins on a heel, and plants a kiss on Porthos’ mouth. “That was fucking adorable,” he says, when they pull apart. “I fucking love your belly. C’mere, belly.” Aramis goes to one knee, braces his hands on Porthos’ hips, and leans forward to kiss the generous swell of his stomach.

“Stop,” Porthos grumbles, frowning less but still blushing a bit. “Don’t kiss m’belly. ‘m not pregnant.”

“That’s what you get.” Aramis grabs Porthos’ arms, hauls himself up. “Trying to surprise me. I’m fucking impressed by these pumpkins, aren’t you?”

“I hope the pie comes out right.”

“The pie with be magnificent, _mi amor_. Shall we set the table?”

“You shall set the table,” Porthos grumps, sticking his nose in the air. “Seein’ as you ain’t done nothin’ else.”

“He has?” Aramis laughs, indicating d’Artagnan.

“ _He_ brought Chex Mix?” d’Artagnan replies, pulling a face.

In the end the four of them set the table together. They also collaborate to decide whether or not the turkey is done and-- after another half hour, when they finally decide it is-- to bring all the food to the table.

D’Artagnan passes Athos the carving knife. He’s about to slice in when he realizes that Aramis has bowed his head in prayer; none of them join, but they all pause respectfully while he finishes, and Porthos kisses his cheek when he raises his head.

“All right,” Aramis says. “Thanks for waiting. Athos, you’re up!”

After dinner Porthos falls asleep on the couch. Aramis curls up next to him and complains about his stomach until Athos makes him a cup of peppermint tea. D’Artagnan proclaims himself full, then goes back for more pie an hour later. After this, though, he’s forced to admit defeat, and drags Athos along on a long, slow walk through the crisp night air.

Athos isn’t quite convinced that such movement aids digestion. Nevertheless it’s a lovely night; the moon is a sliver and the stars shine all the brighter for it. D’Artagnan is cheery but mostly silent. They loop the neighborhood once, twice, peering through the windows at other groups of family and friends celebrating the holiday together.

When they get back, d’Artagnan hugs everyone goodnight, and heads home. Aramis is next-- mournfully yet impishly implying that he’d sleep over if not for his stomach-- and then it’s just Athos and Porthos, alone in the house.

Porthos falls asleep again; Athos spreads a blanket over him. Then he sees to the dishes, takes his Prozac, and goes to bed.

*

On Friday morning, Porthos packs his things. He hugs Athos about a hundred times and asks about a thousand time if he’ll be all right; Athos isn’t completely sure of the answer, but he puts on a brave face.

Porthos hugs him one last time and leaves.

*

After Thanksgiving-- after four weeks on antidepressants-- Athos goes for a follow-up with his psychiatrist, lays out his symptoms, and is assured that as long as they’re diminishing, nothing’s wrong. His prescription is bumped from 10mg to 20. The entire appointment takes less than ten minutes, and half an hour later he finds himself standing at the pharmacy counter, trying to look interested in meal replacement bars and trying not to look too pathetic.

The pharm tech smiles as she hands him the small paper bag. And Athos drives home through a gentle snow flurry, makes himself a bowl of soup, and starts in on Step Two of his Not Feeling Like Total Shit Anymore master plan.

The next day the headaches come back.

But they aren’t as bad as last time, Athos grudgingly admits, and the stomach troubles are constrained to a few episodes of mild nausea that goes away when he sits still for a minute. He’s not _ill_ this time, just a bit under the weather.

But the drowsiness hits as hard as it did before, and Athos more or less sleeps until Christmas.

It’s a blessing in disguise, really. He counts the days, ticks off the time to six weeks, Conrad’s magical figure by which the majority of patients on Prozac start to notice improvement.

Six weeks comes and goes.

It’s just hard to be cheerful when you’re so damn _lonely_ , is all, but even the loneliness doesn’t make sense. He hasn’t had anyone-- well, not in over ten years, at least. And he was never so damn lonely _before_ , was he?

So sleeping to Christmas is probably for the best.

It’s the week before break when he finally feels the fog lift away; just like last time, he’s suddenly conscious one day, in a way he wasn’t before. And it’s just in time for the pre-break chaos. What comes before winter break is ten times as bad as what comes before Thanksgiving break, and Athos does little more than buckle in and hold on.

On Tuesday afternoon, though, he gets a cheery surprise. Jennifer Fuentes drops by his room just after dismissal, and lets herself in with a smile. Athos looks up from his laptop, and smiles back.  He adores Jennifer, has done since the first week of school last year, when she was one of the few juniors in his favorite elective. She’s bright and friendly and a little bit scatterbrained. And she engages history with a compassion far beyond her years, analytical yet empathetic, like a tiny female Porthos.

“Heyyy, Mister LaFerree,” she calls, drawing out the words as she’s fond of doing. She bounds over to his desk. “I was supposed to give this to you last week,” she says in a rush of breath, and thrusts an envelope into his hands. She goes on before he can get one fingertip under the seal.

“I know you couldn’t come last year but I wanted to see-- I mean I know it’s a busy time of year, _y le digo a mi mamá que_ it’s better to have it farther from the holiday, but-- yeah. If you want to come. My dad would love to meet you. _Y mis_ _tios también_.”

Inside the envelope is an invitation to a party at Jennifer’s house, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.

Athos’ belly goes very warm, all at once.

“It’s a family party, mostly,” Jennifer continues. “But like don’t worry because we’re inviting a couple other teachers too. So it won’t be weird or anything. At least, I hope not.”

Athos smiles. “I’d love to come, and it so happens that I am free this year. Thank you, Jennifer. Should I bring anything?”

Jennifer lights up, even brighter than usual. “Mamá says to say no, but I say you can never have too many cookies, right?”

“Right.”

“Sorry for asking you so late.”

“Don’t apologize,” Athos soothes. “It wasn’t a homework assignment. I’m looking forward to it, Jen. Thank you.”

And he really is.

*

On Friday they have noon dismissal. Athos drives d’Artagnan to the airport; his aunt and uncle have invited him to France for the holiday again. Then he goes home and bakes a few batches of cookies. They’re hardly Porthos caliber, to be sure, but the ones he samples taste pretty good-- the jelly thumbprints, especially. He arranges them in two festive plastic tubs.

On Saturday afternoon, dressed in brown corduroys and a light green sweater, Athos loads the cookies in the car and drives to Jennifer’s family’s apartment. Silly as it may be, he has to admit he’s somewhat nervous. He’s been to students’ parties before, but up until this point they’ve all been graduation parties. Those are easy to handle. All he has to do is talk about how wonderful the graduate is (and it’s never a lie, because he’s only ever been invited to the parties of students he does actually think wonderful). He can do that; he can even do that in Spanish. But this is a Christmas party, a party of guests who don’t all know each other and are meant to meet and mingle, and Athos is _horrible_ at that.

Jennifer, though, doesn’t seem to notice. She opens the door with a screeched _Mister Lafere!_ , followed by a declaration that he’s dressed like a naked Christmas tree. Then she grabs the cookies and brings him around to meet her family.

It’s definitely a little awkward; Jennifer’s mother speaks English, but many of her other relatives don’t. For his part, Athos speaks Spanish clumsily at best. French jelps, with cognates and the like, but it also hinders; if he tries to speak Spanish too fast he often finds his words some out in his mother’s language instead.

All of this without mention that he is simply bad at small talk.

Athos chats briefly with a few guests, and has just grabbed a small plate of food and sat down to contemplate what a bad idea this was when he hears a woman’s voice.

“Hey, LaFere.”

Athos looks up, right into the smiling face of Winnie Colburn. _Math_ , his mind offers automatically; then, _special ed_. Porthos has co-taught a few classes with her, considers her a friend.

“Hey, Colburn.”

Colburn settles into the chair beside Athos’, balances her own plate of food-- stacked much higher-- on her lap. “Glad you could come this year.”

“Yeah,” Athos agrees. “Well, no other plans.”

“Jenny’s got a knack for picking up the wayward souls, huh?”

“She does.”

“I actually had her in eighth grade, back when I taught at the middle school. Fifth Christmas Eve running at the Fuenteses, for me.”

“No family plans?”

“No family, really,” she replies, with a shrug. “I’m glad to have another teacher here, even though I know Porthos wishes you would’ve gone with him.”

It must show on Athos’ face, how little he expects that comment. Colburn laughs.

“Sorry. You know what a talker he is.”

“I do. And yes. He’s usually my, eh, Christmas plans, as it were. But he’s got a new, um--”

“Boyfriend. Don’t worry, I’m in the loop.”

“Right, so, I felt-- strange. Being a third wheel on their first Christmas together.”

“He really wouldn’t like hearing that.”

“I know,” Athos admits. He feels his gaze wander, down his legs and shoes and onto the worn beige carpet, then Colburn snaps him back to attention.

“Hey!”

Athos looks up; he’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s certainly not the sound of a phone camera.

“Are you-- texting Porthos a picture of me?”

“I am _Snapping_ Porthos a picture of you. Which I’m sure my kids would be horrified to know. There!”

She holds the phone up for him to see; his face is a little blurry, but still clear enough to see his expression of surprise. She’s drawn a Santa hat on him and captioned it, _look who I found!_

Athos pulls a face; she pulls one back and sends it.

They make small talk for a few more minutes; it’s teacher small talk, though, which is the kind that Athos can actually do. Then Colburn picks up her phone, taps it, and laughs.

She holds it up for him to see: it’s Porthos and Aramis, definitely slightly tipsy and making horribly sad faces at the camera. The caption reads, _we miss you!_ The image disappears after a few seconds, leaving a white screen.

“Want to send a reply?” Colburn chuckles.

“Not in this format.”

“Don’t pretend you’re above it. Oh, look!”

She holds the phone back up; this time there’s just Aramis, with superimposed dog ears, nose, and tongue. It’s a video this time.

“Athos!” Aramis cries, from the screen. “I know it’s too late for tonight. But you should really drive up in the morning! Think about it, at least. Merry Christmas!”

“What the hell,” Athos sighs, shaking his head.

Then his own phone buzzes; he opens it to see a message from Porthos.

 _Please do come_ , it reads. _this is my first xmas without you in years. i miss you_

Athos doesn’t know, at the moment, that’s he’s made the decision to go; looking back on it, though, it really is quite instantaneous.

After the party, he packs an overnight bag. He curls up in bed and falls asleep easily, and in the morning he showers and sets out.

The trip is just over four hours. His driving leg hurts and he has heard five different versions of _Last Christmas_ by the time he arrives, but as he pulls up to the d’Herblay residence, already flanked by a dozen cars, he realizes he’s grinning like a fool. He’s been to this house only once before. But it feels a little like coming home, however strange that is, and as he rings the doorbell he can already hear music and laughter from inside.

A child he doesn’t recognize lets him in, politely takes his coat. He smiles at her, but does not have a chance to introduce himself before a warm hand takes him by the arm.

“ _Athos_ ,” Aramis’ mother hums. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”  She pulls him in and hugs him tightly, then laughs when he shivers and takes him through to the cozy kitchen.

She’s putting a mug of something hot in his hands when Aramis attacks. The pale brown drink splashes onto the cuff of Athos’ sweater as Aramis grabs him up in a massive embrace.

With a firm kiss to the nose, Aramis pulls away. “Jesus, finally. I’ve only been inviting you for a decade now. Should’ve known you’d go wherever Porthos went-- although, speaking of which, I have no idea where Porthos _has_ gone--”

The sudden warmth is making Athos’ nose run, and he’s a little discombobulated by the ebullient greetings. Still he’s actually pretty calm. “Is this eggnog or hot chocolate?” he asks, holding up his mug. The color is in between the two.

“It’s-- eggnoggish? It’s a Chilean thing. There’s brandy in there; you’ll like it.”

Athos sips the mystery beverage as Aramis leads him into the sitting room; it tastes like cinnamon and coffee and oranges, and he decides he actually likes it better than eggnog. It warms him, and grounds him, as the noise of the sitting room washes over his ears.

Porthos is playing board games on the floor with Aramis’ nieces; when he sees Athos enter he scrambles to his feet and bounds over for a hug. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers, in Athos’ ear. “I am so, so glad you came, lovely.”

Athos squeezes him firmly. “Me too,” he promises.

The next few hours are full of food and noise and recounting how he knows Aramis, over and over and over; Athos drinks a lot of not-eggnog, followed by a fair amount of wine, and tries to keep up with it all. It’s less daunting than it might have been sober. Still as the sun sets and Christmas lights come on all over the house, he finds himself a little overheated, a little overwhelmed.

Soon his conversation with Aramis’ brother comes to a natural end. With nobody’s eyes on him, he slips out the sliding door onto the back patio, and settles himself on the stairs down to the grass.

The chill feels amazing. Athos rolls his sleeves to his elbows and lets the cold air slip over his skin, even out the heat that’s stuck inside him. Everything is very still, calm despite the noise from within the house, and Athos sighs.

A few minutes later there’s footsteps, then a plop on the stairs, and Athos looks over to find Aramis peering back.

“Needed a little introvert time?”

Athos nods.

“Is it okay if I sit with you?”

“’course,” Athos hums, and shimmies a little closer.

Aramis sighs. “Honestly, there’s a _little_ homophobia going on in there I wouldn’t mind taking a break from.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s nothing blatant. And it’s not my parents or my sisters or brother. Just some uncles I see, you know, once a year. It was just getting a little stuffy in there.”

Athos nods again, and they settle into a comfortable silence.

It takes Porthos about ten minutes to arrive, which is slightly longer than Athos would’ve bet on but perfect timing in that he comes just as Athos and Aramis are getting cold. They scoot apart as he approaches.

He scowls in response. “I dunno if you think I wouldn’t want you cuddlin’, or if you didn’t want me t’know you were talkin’ ‘bout me--”

Aramis laughs. “No, that was, _oh crap we’re actually kinda cold now, oh look here comes a walking heater_.”

“We figured we’d share,” Athos adds.

Porthos’ laughter booms out as he sits, and Aramis and Athos huddle against him from opposite sides.

“It’s summer in Chile right now,” Aramis notes, a little wistfully.

“Don’t start. You moved here when you were like, two. And you love the snow.”

“It’s not snowing,” Aramis whines, “it’s just _cold_.”

“Well, look who decided to come outside without a coat on.”

Aramis snorts, and probably burrows deeper against Porthos, though Athos has his face in Porthos’ shoulder and can’t see to know for sure.

“Christ,” Aramis sighs, after a little while. “I remember sitting on these exact steps when I was a kid. Here I am again. When did I turn thirty-three?”

“August,” Porthos supplies, cheerfully.

“I feel like we’re twelve, and we’ve been best friends since we were born, and we’re going off on some life-changing adventure through the woods or something.”

“ _What_?”

“When you were twelve I was already in college,” Athos grumbles. “So kindly shut up about being thirty-three.”

“Mm. Sorry. Just, escaped a family party to come sit outside in the dark, with my friends.”

“I’m your boyfriend,” Porthos reminds him, quietly.

“Right. I dunno. I just love Christmas. It always feels like a movie. Like a moment you could watch over and over. Don’t you think?”

Athos opens his mouth to answer; shuts it when he realizes how close he is to tears. He pushes up against Porthos, feels an arm go around his waist.

“You’re shiverin’,” Porthos murmurs. “Both of you.”

“Five more minutes,” Aramis whispers back, and none of them argue.

*

Athos leaves the next day after lunch. Porthos, Aramis, and Aramis’ family all insist he stay, but he gives a hand-wavy account of how much schoolwork and housework he’s got to do over break. It’s not quite a lie. There is an awful lot to do, though on that particular day he does none of it, just buries himself in bed and tries mostly in vain to nap.

On Tuesday, he’s relatively productive though. He spends the day cleaning and setting up his next unit plan; he works right into the night, because Conrad is away for the holidays and they don’t have an appointment this week.

D’Artagnan comes over Friday. He’s sleepy with jet lag and won’t stop speaking in French-- with a noticeably renewed Gascon twinge. Still he’s welcome company.

That night Aramis texts, announcing the venue he’s chosen for them to spend New Year’s Eve at the following night.

Athos says he’s not feeling well, and can’t make it.

On New Year’s Eve he goes to bed by ten, and when he wakes up, it’s next year.

*

He’s edgy the first day back. There’s just no other word for it. He jumps at the sound of a textbook being slammed and gives a detention for something that really only deserved a stern talking-to. He avoids his friends for no good reason, and Tuesday’s no better.

By the time he drags himself into Conrad’s office that night, Athos feels half an inch from tipping over; he perches on the edge of the couch and snaps at all the offered pleasantries. Conrad does not rise to the bait. He leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and says, “so.”

“So.”

“So last time we met, which was two weeks ago, you expressed that you felt the Prozac hadn’t made much of a difference.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s been two months now. Can you give me an update?”

“An update.”

Conrad shrugs. “Any difference? Even something minor?”

“No.”

“You seem angry.”

“Do I.”

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

Blood swirls across Athos’ field of vision.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Yes, I’m angry. And yes, there’s something I’d like to talk about. It’s been two goddamn months and I don’t feel _any_ different. This is isn’t working. It’s not _fucking_ working! I-- I feel sick, and exhausted, and I don’t feel _any_ different! So what’s the _fucking_ point?”

“You don’t feel any different?” Conrad prompts. “Are you sure?”

“What?”

“I only asked if you were sure. Sometimes you’re the last to know, Athos. Christmas at your friend’s house doesn’t seem like something you would’ve said yes to before. And anger isn’t something you usually express. Are you sure you aren’t noticing any differences?”

“No,” Athos snaps. “I mean, yes. Yes, I’m sure. No, nothing’s different. I’m sure. I’m _sure_.”

And then he bursts into tears.

Athos isn’t sure he’s ever actually _burst_ into tears before; generally speaking there’s a sting, a blur, a sniffle, like a drizzle building up to a thunderstorm. This is a sudden downpour. He doesn’t even retain enough sense to cover his face, so he just sits there, wide open on his therapist’s couch, crying his eyes out. 

Crying his _fucking_ eyes out. 

Conrad stands, moves about the room for a moment, then comes over and places a tissue and a lukewarm bottle of water in Athos’ hands. Athos’ mind tries and fails to be cynical about this. Instead he opens the water, drains half in one go, then blows his nose loudly. Finished, he sits, panting. 

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking now?” Conrad asks, patiently, when Athos finally catches his breath. 

 _Porthos_ , Athos thinks; _I want Porthos._

“I’m okay,” Athos huffs. “I’m okay.”

“This a moment. Stay in it. Athos, if you need to feel this then feel it.”

The words are out before he can stop them:

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Conrad replies, simply. “That’s all right, Athos. It doesn’t have to be tonight. If you’d like to go to the restroom for a minute, you should feel free.”

Athos nods. He pushes to his feet and staggers out of the little office, across the hallway, and into the bathroom. He locks the door, then goes into the handicapped stall and locks that too. Then he slumps down in the corner, back against the wall, tile cool through his shirt against the skin of his shoulders.

The tile is pale blue. The floor is medium grey and relatively clean, and the air smells like Glade. The sink is dripping slowly; there’s a _plink_ every few seconds. There’s also the ragged gusts of his own breathing, echoing off the flat metal of the stall, and hearing them somehow makes it easier to slow them down.

It’s a minute or two before he goes back. He’s calm by then, though his eyes feel horribly swollen and his head is pounding a bit. Conrad’s sitting at his desk, mild as ever. Athos collapses onto the couch and buries his face in his hands.

“Up for talking about it?” Conrad prompts.

“No. ‘m not.”

“All right.” He’s quite a moment. “Listen, you don’t have to stay the full fifty minutes, you know. If you’d rather head home, if you feel all right to drive, you can go. It’s very teacher of you, thinking you have to take up the whole period.”

Despite himself, Athos smiles. He raises his head and meets Conrad’s eyes, and feels a sudden rush of affection for him. “If you’re not offended,” he grinds out.

“Not at all.”

“Okay.”

He gets to his feet again-- head spinning now instead of just pounding-- and shrugs into his coat. In his car, he bites his lip the whole drive home to keep from weeping.

At home he hides away in the shower and scrubs himself red; then he sits on the edge of the tub, without toweling off, without dressing, and listens to the water drain away. Listens to the water drip from his hair onto the tiles.

It’s Tuesday; there’s school tomorrow, and though Porthos would still come if he called, it’s just not right.

Which means tomorrow won’t be right either, nor Thursday.

With a strange, sudden clarity, Athos realizes that he is mentally scheduling his own breakdown.

Oh well.

On Friday he sits on the kitchen floor and all but chugs a bottle of Malbec. He’ll fucking pay for this-- his tolerance is so, so much lower on Prozac, and the hangovers are so, so much worse-- but he hardly cares.

He finishes the bottle around five. By 5:30, he is drunk enough to call; by 6:30 Porthos is letting himself in the front door. At this point Athos is more or less pacing the living room.

Porthos tries to talk calmly, at first, but Athos can feel himself not listening; he doesn’t know why, this is exactly what he wanted, but he’s so drunk and so tired by now he can barely function. Finally Porthos changes tactics.

“Athos, sit down,” he orders.

Athos plops to the floor.

Porthos settles next to him. He doesn’t make contact, but his presence soaks into Athos like sunshine; Athos folds his hands over his mouth, bows his head.

Once he gives himself permission, it’s surprisingly easy. Tears swell up in the corners of his eyes, creep along his lashes, and drip silently down his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe them. He lets them spill, more coming every second; feels them in his nose, tastes them in his mouth.

“Athos,” Porthos whispers, love and fear in his voice, “are you cryin’?”

Athos nods, holding his breath. 

“Oh, Athos,” Porthos soothes. “Oh, lovely, it’s okay. Did something happen?”

And suddenly the tears aren’t silent anymore. Athos tries to speak, hiccups instead, and moves his hands just long enough for a single sentence: “nothing happened, I’m just r-really s-sad.”

“Oh,” Porthos murmurs, wrapping an arm around him as he cries harder. “That’s okay. That’s okay, sweetie, just let it out. Let it all out; it’s okay.”

“I’m just s-so fu-ucking _tired_ of this,” Athos weeps, fingers muffling his words. “I’m tired of being-- fuck--”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“’m so _tired_. An’ I thought-- I was getting, um, a _little_ better but--”

“People get sad sometimes, lovely,” Porthos soothes, rubbing his arm. “Just ‘cause you’re sad right now don’t mean you’re not gettin’ better.”

Oh, Porthos. Porthos, _Porthos_.

“I’m sorry,” Athos chokes out. He lowers his hands. “I’m so-orry you’ve been taking care of me-- you’ve been taking care of me and you sh-shouldn’t have to-- and now I’m c-crying and you’re taking care of me _again_ \--”

There’s a warmth on his forehead then, and a gentle scrape of beard, and Athos realizes that Porthos has kissed him. “You don’t have to be sorry for that,” he promises. “I’m glad you’re lettin’ me.”

Athos’ laugh is ugly, soupy, scratchy in his throat. “’m sorry,” he says again, then, without quite meaning to, “I’m drunk.”

“Had my suspicions,” Porthos replies, calmly. 

“I think I did it on purpose.”

“It’s usually an accident?”

“I did it because I-- because I-- I can’t do this sober. I can’t.”

“Call me over? Get a hug? You can, you know.”

“No,” Athos weeps. “I can’t.”

Porthos scratches his back. “Really? ‘cause I seem to recall multiple graduation ceremonies when a certain history teacher pulled me into the faculty bathroom and blubbered on me a good five minutes. Or were you drunk then too?”

 _It hasn’t always been like this_ , Athos thinks, absently. _I haven’t always been like this._

_Maybe I won’t always be like this._

“Porthos,” he whimpers. “‘m sor-- ‘m sorry--”

“C’mere,” Porthos says, and bundles him closer. He’s warm and sturdy and Athos starts bawling all over again, sobbing so hard that he makes himself cough, then gag. Stars blink at the edges of his vision.

Porthos just holds him, both arms around his back now, rocking him a little while he hacks and hiccups and leaks various facial fluids.

When it ends, his ass is literally in Porthos’ lap. He’s not sure who moved it there, and either alternative is pretty embarrassing, so he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t do much of anything, really. For a few minutes, not-crying is just as soggy and slurpy and revolting as crying was, and all he can really think about is how much snot he’s gotten on Porthos’ shoulder and how he should really try not to get any more there. His bones have also disappeared. At least he’s pretty sure that’s the only viable explanation, given how he is literally draped over Porthos’ chest now, feeling heavy as clay even to himself.

He doesn’t really revive until he hears a sniffle that doesn’t come from him. Light-headed and bleary-eyed, Athos hauls himself back just far enough to peek up at Porthos-- who, to Athos’ surprise, seems to have been crying almost as much as Athos himself.

“Oh,” Athos says, intelligently.

Porthos finally lets go of Athos, just with one arm, to mop his face on the inside of his elbow. “Sorry, lovely,” he croaks. “Just-- hate seein’ you so sad. Wish there was more I could do, y’know?”

“’m okay,” Athos babbles, touching a finger to Porthos’ cheek with the sort of audacity only a drunk can muster. “D’n’t be sad for me, ‘m okay. I jus’-- Jesus, I just hadn’t cried in a really long time.”

It isn’t quite the truth, but it may as well be. Crying only really counts if somebody sees it, is the thing, and nobody has seen Athos cry-- for himself, that is, graduation is excepted-- in years. Maybe in fucking decades.

“Yeah?” Porthos prompts, sniffling again.

“Yeah. I think I-- needed it. Like you said. But ’m okay. But also, um-- I think I m’y throw up soon.”

“Well, let’s not do that here,” Porthos replies, patiently, and lugs Athos to his feet and down the hall.

*

In the morning, Athos feels-- wonderful.

Not physically. Physically he feels like he’s drowned in a vat of cheap whiskey and has been resuscitated only by the kiss of a komodo dragon who has also force-fed him a bottle and a half of ipecac.

But, that aside, he feels great.

People are onto something with this crying shit, really; all this time he’s thought it was just something that happened, on the really sad days, to drive all that sadness home just a little bit more.

But last night he had what Porthos would probably call _a nice, long cry_.

And he feels _better_.

He finally makes it out of the bathroom and down the hallway around eleven in the morning. Porthos is napping, upright, on the couch. Athos leaves him be, drags himself to the kitchen for a banana and a glass of water, then curls up next to Porthos and nurses his angry stomach.

By the time Porthos wakes up Athos has finished the water. (He abandoned the banana after too close of a close call, though, and has placed it carefully on Porthos’ armrest.)

Porthos blinks and snuffles a bit as he comes to. “Hey, pukey,” he greets, when he sees Athos. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Not my first rodeo,” Athos croaks, and Porthos smiles.

“An’, um, how are you feelin’, like, otherwise?”

Athos nods. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Catharsised. Catharted?”

“Yeah?”

A creaky, crooked smile works its way onto Athos’ lips. “Yes. Please stop worrying.”

Porthos rubs his forehead. “You can’t honestly blame me. That was some fuckin’ show last night.”

“I know.”

Porthos smiles again, a bit more brightly. “If I cuddle you, are you gonna chuck up on me?”

“If I do, it’ll only be water.”

“An’ that makes it okay?”

In lieu of a response, Athos drags himself to Porthos’ side and curls up against his chest.

“Mm. Right. You’re like a baby bird. Freshman bird. Tolerance is gone, lovely.”

“I know.”

“C’n I eat this banana, or are you savin’ it for later?”

“I’m not saving it but I really don’t want to hear chewing right now.”

“’sgonna go brown,” Porthos pouts, but leaves it be.

Athos drifts in and out of a queasy doze as Porthos strokes his back, so lightly he can barely feel it. Porthos’ body is warm, and he smells like eucalyptus. Athos suspects-- is not sure, but definitely suspects-- that he knows now what that hypothetical heaven would feel like, were he actually to ever make it there, because hangover aside he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so _comfortable_.

And as the hangover fades he only feels better.

It starts to flurry sometime around one; this is around the same time that Athos decides he’s ready to try eating again, and he and Porthos make bowls of oatmeal and sit wrapped in blankets on the back steps. The warm food and cold air at last quell Athos’ nausea. Porthos finishes his oatmeal first, and sits catching snowflakes on the back of his hand; he inspects them as they melt into rivers between the dark hairs of his knuckles.

It isn’t until Porthos speaks that Athos realizes how quiet the world has been. “This ain’t lettin’ up, is it?”

“Mm.”

“’d almost say there’s a chance of a snow day, if it weren’t Sunday tomorrow.”

“You should go,” Athos says. His voice is quiet and firm. “Get snowed in at home. Or with Aramis.”

“Is that your way of askin’ for some space?”

“No. It isn’t. But I don’t mean to keep you here if--”

Porthos’ arms cut off his words, soothe his mind-- and cause him to get a glob of oatmeal down his front. He smiles, a little helplessly.

“I’ll say this ‘til you get it, huh?” Porthos murmurs. “You ain’t a bother, lovely. You’re anythin’ but.”

Athos pulls away and flicks the oatmeal off his shirt. “You made me spill on myself,” he whines, and Porthos snorts.

The snow picks up, but Athos hardly minds; he’s warm except his hands and face, which are really quite cold, but the contrast is strangely pleasant. He tips his head back. The flakes settle in his beard and eyelashes, melt down his nose and his cheeks. He sucks in a breath, blows out a white cloud.

Porthos’ voice is muted by the snow. “You’re feelin’ better.”

“Mm. Haven’t puked in my mouth in over an hour now.”

He snorts. “No, you’re-- you’re _feelin’_ better.” He offers the words like flowers at an altar. “Yeah?”

“Oh.”

The world goes silent again, for a moment.

“Yeah,” Athos whispers. “I think I might be.”

*

His brain, as ever, has a funny way of doing things.

 _Feeling better_ would look, to an outsider, a lot like feeling worse, at least in some ways.

In the next forty-eight hours, Athos cries:

In bed, at a bad dream.

In the car, at a sad song.

In the faculty bathroom (on prep), because his student’s grandmother had a stroke.

In the faculty bathroom (at lunch), because Don Bowden shared a Facebook post about a dying dog whose owners tried to give it a wonderful last day on earth.

Okay, that one he cries about on the couch that night, too. He calls Porthos, who hears one sniffle and immediately yelps that he’s getting his shoes on, he’ll be there in half an hour--

Athos bursts out laughing, and sobbing. “No! No, Porthos, I’m okay, I’m okay! I just-- I r-read about this d-dog that died--”

“Oh, my god,” Porthos says quietly. “Athos?”

“His owners bought him three cheeseb-burgers and took him to the b-beach and-- and-- and _fuck_ I can’t s-stop crying!”

Porthos stays on the line while Athos blubbers a few minutes longer. Then he says goodbye, with strict orders to eat a piece of chocolate, take a hot shower, and go to bed. Athos obeys.

In the morning he wakes feeling like the world after a storm: clean and calm and maybe just a little washed-away. At school, he finds Porthos’ car in the lot. Athos goes to his friend’s classroom, all but crawls into his arms, and stays there until Porthos thumps him and complains that he’s got to make copies for, _like, first fucking period, Ath_. Then he trails Porthos to the copier, watches him in silence. The whole school was mad yesterday, that they didn’t end up with a snow day, and Athos wonders idly if today will be the same.

The copier lurches to a halt. Porthos’ hand is overwarm from handling the fresh copies as he lays it on Athos’ shoulder. “How you doin’?”

“’m good.”

“You’re good?”

“I’m good. I’m sorry. Porthos, you have the patience of a saint.”

Porthos frowns lightly. “Don’t say that,” he mutters.

“Why not?”

“Makes me uncomfortable. I don’t got the nothin’ of a saint, lovely.”

Now Athos feels himself frowning in kind. “Everything okay?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Are you--?”

“Ain’t even slightly mad at you, so please don’t go there, Ath. Really. I mean it. Guess I’m just mad about the not-snow day. You need a hug?”

“Mm. Nah.”

“But you _want_ a hug.”

Athos feels his face go red. Porthos fits his copies into the crook of one elbow, then wraps the other arm around Athos, squeezing him gently. Athos hugs back, pretty sure Porthos is the one who really needs it right now.

He’s not the only one-- though certain teachers are a bit less evasive.

That afternoon, Athos and Porthos are grading in Athos’ room; d’Artagnan walks in, stares at his shoes, and says by way of greeting, “um. I need a hug.”

Athos and Porthos flash twin smirks at one another, then Porthos gets to his feet and goes to d’Artagnan’s side. There’s a hint of a blush on the boy’s cheeks by now. But he sinks gratefully into Porthos’ arms the instant they’re offered, and stays sagged against his shoulder for a solid minute.

He looks on the verge of tears when Porthos pulls away. Athos startles a little and comes over to offer a second embrace. “Want to tell us?” he asks, quietly.

D’Artagnan curls against him. “It was going better,” he mumbles, “and now it’s not-- and it’s only January and I don’t think I can _do_ this again--”

His voice cracks, and somewhere behind them Porthos coos in sympathy. D’Artagnan presses one hand, weakly, to the small of Athos’ back. His hair tickles Athos’ nose as Athos nuzzles his face into it; it’s smoother than it is soft, and smells vaguely herbal.

“If I made you think the second year would be easy, I apologize,” Athos sighs, after a beat. “ _Easier_ is not _easy_.”

“’s my own dumb fault for thinking that.” The lump in his throat is audible.

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

D’Artagnan sniffles, pulls away. “I’m not one of your kids, Ath. Like, I appreciate the sentiment but I think I _need_ to be a little hard on myself.”

“I’m hard on my kids. When they need a kick in the ass. I’m hard on you when you do, too, I think. But you’re expecting yourself to be a master teacher in your second year, and that’s just not reasonable. Okay? It’s not.”

D’Artagnan sniffles again, jaw working a little. “I know. ‘m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Athos sighs. He doesn’t hug the boy again, but puts a hand on his shoulder and keeps it there as he wipes his eyes. “Listen, I’m giving a test tomorrow, so I’m pretty much free tonight. Why don’t we get dinner? If you have time.”

D’Artagnan smiles weakly. “I have time.”

“Porthos?”

“If I’m invited.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Athos scoffs, at the same time that d’Artagnan blurts out, “please come, Porthos!”

“We haven’t all been out in ages,” he adds. Then he flashes his huge, dewy eyes, which by rights should not work on a veteran teacher-- but which absolutely do.

Porthos smirks. “If you wanna make it a real party I guess we could also invite this Chilean guy I’ve been dating.”

D’Artagnan laughs. “He’ll make it a party?”

“He’s the life of the party. Three shots an’ he’s blitzed-- gotta be careful, though, ‘cause four shots an’ his head’s in the crapper.”

“Poor Aramis,” Athos sighs, and gets out his phone to text him.

Both Porthos and d’Artagnan seem marginally more cheerful after these plans have been made, but when they all reconvene at Tir Na Nog, the gloom has rolled back in. Aramis’ arrival both helps, and doesn’t. Like kids who don’t remember to cry until their parents have asked them what hurts, the two of them sag under Aramis’ comforting presence.

Aramis kisses Porthos, deeply, but does not ask after him. Instead he slaps Athos’ shoulder in greeting before turning his full attention to d’Artagnan.

“We all right?” he prompts. D’Artagnan shakes his head. “Aw. What’s up, pup?” Aramis asks, pulling him in for an easy hug. The boy sighs as he hugs back.

“Bad day. I dunno. I’m okay.”

“Mm-hm. Sit,” Aramis commands, pushing d’Artagnan into a booth and sliding in next to him. Athos smiles, crawls in the other side first so Porthos can sit opposite Aramis.

The server comes over. They order two pitchers of beer, two plates of Irish nachos, and two plates of mozzarella sticks. D’Artagnan eats some nachos. He also eats three mozzarella sticks, drinks half a glass of beer, and then is ready to spill.

“So,” he sighs, drawing their attention. “You know how we had a lockdown today?”

Athos and Porthos nod.

“’kay, well, the janitor borrowed my key _weeks_ ago, because it’s a master key for whatever fucking reason, and he never gave it back, right?”

“So you didn’t have a key for the lockdown,” Aramis sighs.

“So I didn’t have a key for the lockdown. So, I dunno, I’m stupid, right? I went into full survival mode, got the kids in the corner of the room, and then went to the door and, you know, held it shut.”

“Did it work?”

“I mean, it did. It almost opened when they came to test the knob-- like, I could feel them turning it-- but I managed to hold it. So I thought I was so clever, right?”

It’s an easy mistake to make, Athos thinks. He himself made it his first year, when he didn’t even _have_ a room key; in the strange way of memories a little piece of him will always be twenty-two, arms over his head, aching, as he pulls the handle forward as hard as he can. Knees bracing to keep himself from sliding down the dusty floor; kids giggling in the corner.

He knows now what he was supposed to do, knows what Treville must have told d’Artagnan.

“You’re supposed to go to the next room over,” Aramis tells him, as though it’s a joke.

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan’s voice is flat. “Well, I know that now.”

“Oh. You didn’t get in trouble for it, did you?”

“Not _trouble_ , I guess. You know the captain. But I certainly got spoken to.”

“Always kind of stings, huh?”

“It’s not that. I mean, it is, because I fucking _hate_ not being right. But more it’s like-- fuck it. I dunno if this is normal, but all I could think about during the lockdown was, y’know, what if it’s real? What if there actually is a shooter in the building? Will I fight to keep this door closed, will I put myself in danger to protect my kids-- and yeah! Yes. I would! And rather than being congratulated for that, I just get shit for it.”

There are times that Athos forgets how young d’Artagnan really is. Then there are times, like now, that it hits him with a sledgehammer.

He’s old enough, though, to sense his friends’ reactions. “Sorry,” he mumbles, newly chastised. “That’s really petty, right?”

“A little,” Aramis replies, brightly. Athos sighs, and scratches his forehead.

“D’Artagnan, if you’re in this for the glory--”

“I’m not. I know.”

“Good. Because if you’re in it for the glory then--”

 _Then you should turn back now_ , his mind says, but he reels himself in.

“Then you’re going to wear yourself out pretty fast. Listen, I did the same thing when I started teaching. Felt like an action hero at the time. But you learn. Yes?”

“I know.”

“The reason you become a better teacher every year is because every year there’s less things you deal with for the first time. More things you’ve handled before, be it wrongly or rightly.”

“That’s kind of what growing up is, too,” Aramis adds, and Athos flashes him a smile of gratitude.

“I know it’s easier said than done, but try not to let it get to you.”

D’Artagnan smiles weakly down at his plate. “I know.” He takes a deep breath, and leans into Aramis with a widening smile. “I know.”

“Do you want to hear a teacher horror story?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Okay, God, there’s so many-- okay, I know. Did I ever tell you about the time I threw up in class?”

Athos snorts. “I remember that.”

“Like, actually?” D’Artagnan prompts.

“Would I exaggerate? Yeah, it was our-- Porthos? Our third year?”

Porthos shifts at Athos’ side. “Fourth.”

“Fourth. Okay. And we were in lab, and I just started feeling _insanely_ nauseous. So I called the office to ask if somebody could watch my kids a minute. And nobody came, big surprise. But my kids heard me say it, of course, so it’s all, _DH? You feel sick?_ So three or four of them ganged up around me and started, you know, gagging, making puking noises-- and one of them grabbed the trash can and shoved it under my face and it _stank_ \--”

“And you actually threw up in it? Like, with the kid holding it still?”

“No, thank god, we were in the lab room so I made it to the sink.”

“I hope they felt bad?”

“I don’t think so,” Aramis replies, with a shrug. “They laughed, mostly, although somebody did go get the nurse.”

“They laughed?” D’Artagnan, even a year in, is still scandalized by the common indifference of children. “What happened?”

“Well, the nurse called Treville and Treville drove me home. I felt better pretty quickly, though. I don’t think I was sick; think I just ate something funny.”

“Or something with more than a teaspoon of spice in it,” Athos teases, raising an eyebrow.

Aramis pulls a face, but laughs. D’Artagnan laughs too, thumps Aramis on the shoulder, and laughs some more.

“Okay!” Aramis says, pouring them more beer. “Pup’s cheered up, now we’ve just got to work on my gorgeous boyfriend here, and we’ll be set.”

“Huh?”

Porthos’ expression when he realizes he’s being discussed is almost comical. Sitting as they are, side-by-side, Athos has not looked at him a while; now that he does he finds Porthos spaced-out and preoccupied.

“ _Huh_ , what,” Aramis mocks. “You’ve been moping all night. What’s up?”

“Nothin’s up.”

“That is a blatant lie and everyone at this table knows it. If that means you’d rather talk about it later that’s fine, but don’t think I haven’t noticed. Would it cheer you up to split a cookie sundae?”

“Ar, I mean it, I’m--”

“Would it cheer you up if we all got cookie sundaes, so you didn’t have to split yours but still weren’t the only one getting dessert?”

Porthos snorts a laugh, and in that laugh Athos hears very little mirth. “I mean, if you wanted to,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

So they all get cookie sundaes. On the menu they’re called _Tirs of Joy_ , because somebody thinks themselves very clever; they consist of a massive mound of brownies and chocolate chip cookies, cemented into layers with vanilla ice cream and doused at each stage with hot fudge. Aramis is going to feel terrible tonight, Athos thinks idly; he’s not sure he’ll fare much better. But Porthos and d’Artagnan both light up as they pluck off the cherries and dig through the whipped cream to the mess below, and Athos decides it’s quite a small sacrifice to make for friends.

The time it takes them to finish is frighteningly scant. D’Artagnan scrapes the last of the hot fudge from his bowl as they handle the check; then they all slide from the booth, and it’s time to go their separate ways.

Athos feels uncomfortably voyeuristic, waiting at his car for Aramis and Porthos to finish kissing. Finally Aramis gets in his mini-van and drives away, though, and Athos goes over to Porthos, who almost seems to have been waiting for him.

Waiting, apparently, to ask after Athos. “Everything all right?” Porthos murmurs, laying a hand on Athos’ arm. Athos feels a smile spread over his face.

“Everything’s all right. Genuinely. I just-- wanted to check on you, actually.”

Porthos’ hand slips away as he leans back against his car. “’m just worried ‘bout one of the kids.”

“Who?”

“It’s kind of a long story for tonight,” Porthos mutters.

“Okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?”

Porthos nods. “Not sure there’s much. But I might take you up on a drink this weekend or somethin’. Another drink, I mean.”

“Whenever,” Athos swears, and Porthos claps him on the shoulder.

*

It seems to come to a head before that, though. On Thursday afternoon, Athos goes to check on Porthos only to find him grey-faced, staring at his cell phone in his hand. D’Artagnan has tagged along. They come into the room, close the door, then both stand silently, waiting for Porthos to make the first move.

Eventually he looks up at them; his eyes are tired. “Just got off the phone with Flea. Charon’s girlfriend.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Charon got himself arrested,” Porthos grunts. “ _Again_.”

Athos has never taught Charon, but he knows him through Porthos; he’s quite bright, from what Porthos says, but in his fourth year of high school he doesn’t even have two years of credits.

“It-- didn’t stick last time,” Athos offers, slowly. “Did it?”

“Oh, it’ll stick this time,” Porthos growls. “Got ‘im with a piece, still in the bracelet from last time. He could get a year for this. More than a year. Kid’s gonna age out before he can graduate. God _DAMN it_!”

Porthos’ fist comes down hard on his desk, catches the corner of his filing trays, and flips them to the floor. Plastic cracks; papers go everywhere. When Porthos brings the fist up to his mouth Athos can see he’s broken the skin on the side of his hand-- not badly, but enough that a few drops of blood well to the surface.

They’re all frozen a moment. Then d’Artagnan rushes over, crouches down and starts gathering papers.

“Leave ‘em,” Porthos snaps. D’Artagnan doesn’t listen.

“ _Leave them_ ,” Porthos repeats, and d’Artagnan stops, rocks back on his heels.

Porthos falters then, just a hair. “Sorry. Just. Sorry. I’m gonna head to his mom’s, see if there’s anything I can do. Leave the papers, please. I’ll get ‘em in the mornin’.”

And then he brushes past Athos and leaves, without another word.

Athos and d’Artagnan keep silent as they gather the papers into neat piles. When they finally finish, d’Artagnan turns to Athos, makes a face.

“That sucks,” he sighs; he starts to pull his hair into a ponytail then stops and stands with his hands on his head.

“It really does.”

“I don’t always-- um. I don’t always know what to say, you know? When something like this happens. And I know, I’m not saying, it’s all down to race because I know it’s obviously not, but-- Porthos just-- he just can get it all, in a way we can’t. Right?”

Athos nods. D’Artagnan’s right: it’s not just down to Porthos being black, but Porthos being black is something a lot of their black kids gravitate towards. Add this to his natural empathy and he’s quite the spectacle. With a few quiet words he can reduce tough-as-nails, bad-ass teenagers to helpless tears about their decisions-- Athos has seen this happen-- then he cries right along with them.

It’s a conversation that Athos knows he isn’t a part of. And he won’t intrude on it, either; he is, after all, just another white guy. Good intentions count for something. But they don’t count for everything, and in the end he’s from a very different world than his kids are.

Porthos is not.

“I think I kind of pass for, um, not white, sometimes.” D’Artagnan is speaking slowly, thinking aloud. “’snot the first time somebody’s assumed that. But the kids ask me where I’m from-- they say, _what are you?_ , which is a funny way of putting it-- and when they realize I’m just a darkish white guy it’s almost like I’m betraying them. Shit. I don’t know what to do.”

“Porthos doesn’t either,” Athos replies, quietly. “That’s the problem.”

*

The next morning Athos stops at Porthos’ favorite café and gets him a coffee and a chocolate croissant. Porthos’ car is in the lot when he gets there. He goes right to his classroom, not even stopping to put his laptop in his own room, and finds Porthos sitting at his desk, lights off.

Porthos doesn’t seem to have slept, or showered. He doesn’t look up until Athos presses the coffee into his hands; then he raises his head like it weighs a thousand pounds. His mouth begins to form _thanks_ , then goes slack. “You shouldn’t’ve picked up my papers,” he mutters.

“It wasn’t hard,” Athos says. He puts the croissant on Porthos’ desk and his laptop bag on a student chair. “You color code.”

“I threw a tantrum. I did exactly what I tell the kids not to do, and you shouldn’t’ve let me get away with it.”

“Fine,” Athos says. He picks up a stack and tosses them to the ground; they skate across the dirty tiles, pastel blue on ugly speckled red.

Porthos blinks down at them, and takes a sip of his coffee.

“How’d it go last night?” Athos asks, after a minute.

Porthos shrugs, puts his coffee down, and goes to pick up the papers. Athos doesn’t help.

“Wasn’t much I could do, y’know? I sat with him mom a while. Was too late to visit him, but I’ll go today after school.”

“So you did go home, then.”

“Went home, yes. Slept, no.” He’s finished with the papers, and slumps back into his chair.

“I got you a croissant,” Athos offers, lamely.

Porthos smiles. “I know. Thanks, lovely. An’ thanks for the coffee.”

“I didn’t really know what else to do.”

“Why d’you think I bake for you all the time,” Porthos replies, dark eyes glancing up at Athos through curly lashes. Athos smiles. Porthos pulls the croissant from the grease-stained white bag, breaks it in two, and hands Athos half.

A minute later they’re both finished, and both have flaky bits on their chests. “I’d been talkin’ t’this construction work program,” Porthos says, as he goes to the trashcan and brushes his shirt clean. “You know he likes bein’ outdoors, likes workin’ with his hands. They sort of incentivize graduation for at-risk kids; it’s a good program. Generally they only want kids less than two years behind, but I’ve told ‘em all about Charon an’ they were gonna give him a chance.”

“Is there any use in holding off until you see the outcome? Maybe in the end they won’t need to know.”

Porthos licks his lips. “He had an interview today.”

“Shit,” Athos huffs.

“Yeah. An’ I’ve known ‘em t’take kids with records for, like, weed, petty theft, whatever. But this’s-- yeah. An’ it’s actually a li’l worse than what Flea had told me.”

Porthos flops into his seat again; the back of the chair scrapes along the cinderblock wall where the paint has already been chipped away by years of this precise motion.

“I’m sorry,” Athos says quietly.

Porthos puts his hands up. “Only so much you can do.”

“But I know that isn’t your style.”

“No it’s _fuckin’_ not. It’s fuckin’ not. Hey, Ath, I-- I’m not prepped for my first class, yeah?”

“Okay,” Athos says, not completely sure if he believes that but certainly willing to play along in either case. “I’ll see you at lunch, Porthos.”

“See ya,” Porthos calls, softly, as Athos exits the room.

He doesn’t go back to his own classroom, or the faculty room; instead he wanders to the top floor, as though looking for somebody, then wanders back down to the basement.

As though he hasn’t found them.

Everyone once in a while it all hits him-- not the mess inside of him, but the mess outside of him-- and even in his eighteenth year in the district he’s really not sure what to do about it.

The irony is that he’s feeling maybe the slightest bit less fucked than before. But the world itself is so damn fucked, what real difference does it make?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for the multiple mentions of Aramis being Chilean. I'm one of those annoying people who visited another country for like, a week, and is now mildly obsessed with it. I just can't help including it here and there. The "eggnogg-ish" drink Athos has is called cola de mono, btw, and is super good :)


	3. Third Marking Period

“You’re in a good mood,” d’Artagnan comments, with a brief, guileless grin. He comes into Athos’ classroom and stretches dramatically as the door shuts behind him.

“What makes you say that?”

“I dunno. You’re just sort of-- smiling at your papers. Kids doing well?”

“Mm. All right, yeah.”

“I am _intensely_ dreading handing out report cards today,” d’Artagnan sighs. “No exaggeration, I had, I think, like eleven or twelve kids fail.”

Athos regards d’Artagnan fondly as he stretches again, plops down on a student desk, and cracks his neck in both directions. He’s wearing, Athos notes, a wonderful sweater. It’s tan with specks of brown and white, and an abstract pattern of red across the chest; Athos approves, wholeheartedly.

D’Artagnan catches him looking, and laughs. “You’re a bad influence.”

“Never.”

“Don’t think I’m an enthusiast now. It’s just _fucking_ cold.”

He’s not wrong; February’s arrival has brought with it a run of impossibly frigid days and simply unbearable nights. There’s been little snow, but the world itself seems turned to ice. Even inside the building, where the heater is usually on far too high, it’s chilly until lunchtime or so.

Athos has been in sweater heaven. Today he’s wearing one of his favorites; it’s black with bands of white, maroon, and teal, and so cozy he almost feels like he’s still home in bed.

Outside his little woolen bubble, though, the world scrapes along. Second quarter report cards are ready, signaling the halfway point of the school year, and grades have hit their customary winter nadir. The kids are grumpy and restless.

What’s more, Porthos has been little more than a shadow for weeks now; Athos has forced himself to give his friend space, but still he misses him. Not to mention he’s getting a little worried. He’d had dinner with Aramis a few days ago, during which the conversation had gone mostly like this:

_How’s Porthos?_

_I don’t know, how is Porthos?_

_I don’t know. He hasn’t been with you?_

_No. He hasn’t been with you?_

_No._

It’s not as though Athos hasn’t seen him. They have lunch the same period, after all, and Athos has brought him coffee and croissants on a few more occasions. But that’s the whole of it. Maybe it’s the weather, Athos thinks-- the dark and the cold-- but that doesn’t seem true.

In any case he’s not really sure how to be on the other side of the melancholy.

D’Artagnan makes an unhappy noise, drawing Athos back to the present; he tries not to smirk as the boy pulls his hands inside his sleeves and curls in on himself, hit by a sudden chill.

“I’m not saying I would do this,” d’Artagnan mumbles. “Only that, like, it was really, _really_ tempting to stay in bed this morning. Like. So tempting.”

“And miss report card day?”

“Mm. Didn’t, did I?” He shivers. “Have you seen Porthos?”

Athos hasn’t, and with this one last inquiry the nagging worry swells up into genuine fear. Where _is_ Porthos? Is this really all down to the weather-- really all down to Charon?

Athos bolts to his feet. One of the advantages to being teachers is that either Porthos is in his classroom, or is going to return there soon. There’s almost twenty minutes before homeroom. Leaving an essay halfway graded, d’Artagnan trailing like the puppy he is, Athos marches over to the junior hallway and down to Porthos’ room--

\--where Porthos is sitting at his desk, typing on his laptop.

He looks up as Athos and d’Artagnan enter, and his brow crinkles slightly. “Everythin’ okay?” he asks, by way of greeting.

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got a look on,” Porthos replies, still frowning, as d’Artagnan goes into the room, goes up behind Porthos, and puts a hand on Porthos’ neck.

“You’re so warm,” he groans, and Porthos slaps his hand away without force.

“Athos, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m completely fine, I just hadn’t-- seen you. Are you okay?”

“Looks like we’re all okay,” d’Artagnan cuts in, “apart from the fact that I am goddamn freezing.”

Porthos catches Athos’ eyes and smiles, confused and concerned and gentle as ever, and Athos smiles back, tries to look similarly reassuring. It must work, because Porthos laughs, and nods. “C’mere, pup,” he grunts, and swirls his chair around to grab d’Artagnan; the boy yelps, but surrenders immediately, folding over Porthos’ shoulder, greedy for warmth.

But the nagging in Athos’ belly has not abated.

*

The cold spell breaks eventually. In late February the air warms to its usual late-winter range, and d’Artagnan announces that it’s time to begin preparing the garden for spring. “Need an early start if you want strawberries,” he warns Athos, and Athos blushes a little because he does. He really wants strawberries.

It’s about this time, too, that his psychiatrist bumps his Prozac from 20mg to 30. The side effects aren’t so bad this time. He can still feel the difference-- he’s sleepy for a few days, and vaguely headachy-- but it’s nothing compared to what he’s already been through. And besides that, it’s working. It’s just fucking working. He wanders around in something of a daze, poking at the world like he hasn’t seen it in years (which he sort of hasn’t.)

But one Saturday, the little Porthos-shaped worry in his stomach finally finds footing.

Athos’ phone rings while he’s in the bathroom; he hears it down the hall. He doesn’t rush. When he goes back into the living room he hears the passive-aggressive beep of a voicemail being left, followed immediately by a text alert.

It’s not a text he expects, in more ways than one.

_think aramis and i broke up_ , it reads. _can we come over?_

Athos blinks at his phone, reads the message again.

Reads it again.

_Aramis and I broke up_.

And then:

_Can_ we _come over?_

Has Porthos taken to using the royal _we_ , or is he asking if they both can come?

Either way, Athos realizes, the answer is the same. _of course_ , he writes back, guilty for the few seconds of delay.

_there in 15_ , is all he gets back.

In those fifteen minutes, Athos gets more cleaning does than he has in weeks-- which is saying something, because he’s been doing well at keeping the house tidy. He’s dumping the dustbin in the trash when the doorbell rings.

He scrambles to the door and yanks it open; Porthos and Aramis are standing there, shivering a little by the glow of the porch lights.

Athos unfreezes, and waves them in.

He isn’t sure what surprises him more: that Porthos isn’t crying, or that Aramis clearly has been. His eyes are red, lashes glued together; there’s a crumpled tissue sticking out of his shirt pocket.

Athos can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen Aramis even vaguely misty-- and have fingers to spare.

Athos lurches forward and hugs him close. Later he’ll wonder just why he went to Aramis first, but he won’t wonder long; they are both his friends, after all. Besides, he’ll hug Porthos plenty too.

Aramis melts into Athos’ arms, silent as a snowy night and nearly as cold; in that moment he is nothing more than a slip of ice waiting for a warm woolen mitten to cling to. Athos rubs his back to thaw as much as to comfort him. Letting the door slam behind them, Athos guides Aramis over to the couch and sits down beside him.

Porthos sits on Aramis’ other side. Not for the first time, Athos wonders at how very unlike a typical breakup this seems. He’s hardly an expert, and doesn’t want to pry. But Porthos is stroking through Aramis’ hair, murmuring to him softly; a stranger would see a grieving man and his lover, not a recently parted couple.

“Wine?” Athos murmurs.

Aramis nods mutely, hair falling into his eyes; Porthos offers up a grateful smile. “Please,” he breathes.

Athos goes into the kitchen and pours three glasses of red. He balances them all with the grace of long practice, and returns to the living room to find that Porthos has slid to the floor, head on Aramis’ knee.

Athos distributes the wine, sits, and waits.

In the silence, Aramis gives a little shudder and starts to cry again; he hunches forward, face in his free hand, and weeps soundlessly. Athos takes his wine. Porthos heaves himself back onto the sofa and slings an arm around him.

They stay this way a minute or two. Then Aramis staggers to his feet and down the hall to the bathroom-- though Athos isn’t really sure if he’s gone to clean himself up, or just to get some privacy. 

Athos moves closer to Porthos. “I’ve never seen him cry,” he murmurs, staring down the hall. “Not really.”

“I have,” Porthos replies, crossing his arms around his belly. “Jus’ the once. The night of Amber William’s funeral, we fell asleep together. Woke up in the middle of the night an’ he was cryin’ his eyes out. He jus’ don’t like people seein’ it.”

“You two don’t seem angry.”

“We’re not.”

“So what happened?”

“Wasn’t workin’,” Porthos whispers, then forces a smile. “We gave it a shot, y’know, had a good run, but we jus’ weren’t headed in the same direction.”

“With the sex?”

“Not only that. I-- it was a lot of stuff. Nothin’ happened tonight. I think we just realized, y’know, _point of no return_ was comin’-- if we still wanted t’be friends after, then we hadda do it, like, now.”

“So,” Athos says, processing, “you’re-- good?”

“We’re good. We are. Las’ year, you remember those months we weren’t-- damn near killed both of us. That’s the point, I think. If we broke up in a year I don’t think we could still be friends. Now, we still can be. Doesn’t mean it don’t hurt a li’l, though.”

Aramis comes back in then, face freshly washed. He smiles, a little shyly, and sits on the couch, putting Athos in the middle now.

“I never even said hi,” he teases, voice scraping like old metal. He can’t seem to breathe through his nose. “Hi, Athos.”

“Hi, Aramis,” Athos says, and Aramis hugs him again.

“Did Porthos explain?”

“Yeah.”

Aramis nods into Athos’ shoulder, then pulls away with a sigh. “Are you mad at us?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Athos asks, at the same time as Porthos grumbles, “he’s not mad at us, Aramis.”

Aramis ignores Porthos, answers Athos. “Because for better or worse, the three of us are as much of a thing as the two of us. You’re affected by our decisions.”

“Are we still friends?” Athos poses, casually.

“Of course we are!” Aramis cries.

Athos turns to Porthos. “Are we still friends?”

Porthos grins. “Kinda wanna crack a joke right now, but I won’t. Yeah. Of course we’re still friends, Athos.”

Athos turns back to Aramis and kisses his cheek. “Okay?”

Aramis nods, eyes going damp again.

“Christ, you’re leaky today,” Porthos grumbles, reaching across Athos to hold Aramis’ hand. “You wanna tell us what you’re thinkin’?”

“I’m not thinking of anything specific,” Aramis murmurs; he rubs his thumb over Porthos’ fingers and puts his head down on Athos’ shoulder. A second later Athos feels a tear splash on his neck. “I’m just sad. Not scared. I promise. Just sad.”

“You’re allowed to be sad,” Porthos tells him, quietly. “It’s okay. I am too.”

For a second Athos thinks this admission will only upset Aramis more; instead, Aramis lets go of Porthos’ hand, wipes his face, and sits up.

“Listen,” he says, sounding stronger now. “Let’s not text this weekend. Okay? No text, no call, no facebook. It’s our instinct to see each other through everything but I don’t think we’re supposed to see each other through breaking up with each other.”

Porthos snorts at this.

“Monday after school we’re going out to dinner, and when we see each other then, we’ll be friends. Not exes. Friends. Is that a plan?”

Porthos nods.

“Are you gonna stay with Athos tonight?”

“Yeah,” Porthos replies; circumstances being what they are, Athos tries not to smile at his lack of hesitation.

“Okay.” Aramis turns and hugs Athos for the third time that night. “Take care of him, okay?” he murmurs. “You know how he is. He’s only been worrying about me.”

“I will,” Athos promises, and squeezes Aramis tightly.

Aramis gets to his feet. He nods at Athos, nods at Porthos and then, blinking back a flood of fresh tears, he leaves.

Alone with Porthos, Athos is silent a moment. When Aramis shuts the door behind him, Athos gets up to pull the chain, then comes back to the couch and settles next to his friend.

Porthos puts his head in his hands. Athos waits for him to move closer, but he doesn’t.

“Gonna change,” he says, eventually. He gets to his feet like it’s the first time he’s feeling gravity, and shuffles down the hall to the guest room. (Porthos has kept clothes there for months now. Athos isn’t quite sure how he feels that this time he’s staying over because _he’s_ in crisis.)  

A few minutes later Porthos emerges in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He comes back to the couch, and collapses there with a grunt.

“How are you doing?” Athos murmurs.

“‘m tired.”

“You can go to bed; I won’t be offended.”

“Nah. Couldn’t sleep. Ar didn’t finish his wine, did he?”

Athos shakes his head, plucks Aramis’ glass from where he laid it down, and hands it over. Porthos drains it in one gulp.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Athos offers.

“What’s there to say?” Porthos snorts, which, in Athos’ limited-but-growing understanding, is exactly what somebody says when they mean _yes but I don’t know how_.

“Well to start you could tell me what _actually_ happened. I highly doubt you just arrived at your realization.”

“Believe it or not we kinda did. Basically. Well, we went to dinner, right? An’ I, um, my lease is up at the end of March. An’ I mentioned, low key, I thought maybe we should move into together. He with me or me with him or our own place-- an’ he asked why.”

“He asked why?”

“Or not even why so much as-- it was weird to him that I’d be the one to ask. That I’d be the one to want it, when I don’t want-- or maybe it’s not even that. I dunno. He asked why I wanted to an’ I said I just wanted more time together, an’ he said, like, moving in is when you’re ready for kids and a life together-- an’ I think we both just sorta looked at each other an’-- an’ realized-- we had different ideas about how two people _have a life together_. An’ we-- we finished eatin’, calm, whatever, and when we got back to his place we just sorta-- we jus’ sorta looked a’ each other an’ went, fuck, we jus’ ain’t-- fuck--”

Porthos swipes at the tears running thickly down his cheeks; Athos puts a hand on his back and says nothing. _Feel your feelings_ , Conrad would say, though he’d be a bit more eloquent.

“An’ I need-- an’ he needs-- us t’still be friends,” Porthos weeps. “Like, I can’t-- I can’t handle-- an’ it’s just like I said, it was our last chance to fall back on that, y’know-- an’ I’m okay. It’s okay. We gave it a go an’ that’s what we needed t’do to know it wouldn’t work. Always woulda wondered if we hadn’t.

“’s just-- it fuckin’ hurts, y’know? I thought-- I thought-- for _one second_ that I was gonna have somethin’ close t’normal. _Be_ with somebody. Get married, maybe. Growin’ up, I never thought-- I never saw that-- an’ I don’t need that. I don’t need that. But _\--_ fuck,” Porthos spits, shoving helplessly at his eyes. “Was nice while it lasted. Time we had, it was good.”

The realization sours Athos’ stomach so quickly, it feels nearly a chemical reaction. He tries not to show it. While Porthos covers his face and fights to stop crying, Athos removes his hand slowly, puts it in his lap instead.

Porthos looks up. “For fuck’s sake,” he croaks.

“What?”

“It took”-- and here he actually glances at his watch-- “less than an hour for you to blame yourself for this. Can you just stop? Jesus Christ, do you realize-- blamin’ yourself for everythin’, puttin’ everythin’ on yourself-- do you know how self-centered that is?”

Athos just blinks.

Porthos scrubs his eyes like he’s just had poison splashed on his face. “Please, allow me to reassure you that I had no goddamn chance anyway.”

He swings to his feet, stomps into the kitchen. Athos puts his head down and gets control of his breathing before he follows Porthos in, finds him gulping whiskey by the sink.

“’s mine,” he says, before Athos can say anything. “Left it here when I was stayin’ here.”

“You’re welcome to any of the rest of it,” Athos tells him.

“You spend too much on whiskey to shoot it.”

_That’s not shooting_ , Athos thinks, but doesn’t say; Porthos puts the bottle to his mouth and takes another swallow. He winces, almost gags.

“Do you want to get a pizza?”

“No.”

“Do you want--”

“’m not hungry.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Porthos snorts. “Not sure I should drive after this.”

“I could drive you.”

“’m just gonna go t’bed,” Porthos grunts, and teeters off, taking the bottle with him.

*

Athos drifts more than he sleeps, restless, hearing every gust of wind. Every passing car.

Hearing, quite clearly, somebody puking their guts up, around three in the morning.

Athos slides out of bed, wanders down the hall in the dark. The light on the tiles is too much for his eyes for an instant, but, squinting, he sees Porthos slumped in front of the toilet, forehead resting on the rim.

“Hey,” Athos murmurs.

Porthos bolts up, scrambles to flush before Athos can see anything-- as though Athos himself has never spent a 3:00am hunched over a toilet bringing up a stomachful of what still looks, and smells, and _burns_ like straight whiskey.

Still, he appreciates the effort.

“I’ve never actually seen you drunk enough to puke,” Athos comments, leaning against the doorframe.

“Las’ time was prob’ly college,” comes the rasping reply. “I woke you up?”

“Not really. You all right?”

“Thass a really stupid question.”

“Okay. Do you have alcohol poisoning?”

“No?” Porthos snorts. “’m not even that drunk, anymore. Jus’ sick. Almos’ done, I think. Maybe. Hold tha’ thought.” Athos grimaces as Porthos pitches forward, but all he does is spit up a few times, nothing major.

When he seems finished, Athos goes in and perches on the edge of the tub. “Do you want to shower?”

Porthos huffs a sticky laugh. “I honestly don’ think I could stand tha’ long.”

“Do you want a bath?”

He thinks about this for a long moment, before nodding, shyly.

Athos gets to his feet, turns on the tap, and waits for it to warm up before he plugs the drain. Porthos, meanwhile, flushes and closes the toilet, then puts his head down on the lid.

“Don’ fill it too much,” he grunts, eyeing the water level. “Even history teachers’ve gotta know ‘bout water displacement.”

In retrospect, this is probably the moment that Athos’ heart breaks. Porthos-- lovely Porthos, gentle, clever, passionate Porthos-- had his heart broken last night and is too sick to stand, and sits there making fat jokes about himself.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Porthos opens his mouth, closes it again, and hangs his head. “No.”

“I will if you want me to.”

“Nobody’s ever seen me naked,” Porthos mumbles. “Least not since the army, an’ believe it or not I was-- y’know. I wasn’t fat back then.”

“Do you really think I care?”

“No. But I do.”

“What if I sat in the hallway?”

Porthos’ lip actually quivers at this, and only the bashfulness in his posture-- and the slight odor of vomit-- prevent Athos from flinging his arms around the man, then and there. “‘kay,” he whispers.

“Just, say something every few minutes. So I know you haven’t drowned.”

Porthos snorts. “‘m really not drunk anymore. Hungover, yeah. Drunk, no.”

“Okay.”

Athos turns off the water then pushes to his feet and goes into the darkness of the hallway, leaving the bathroom door open but seating himself so he can’t see inside it. The bathroom is bright, and the periphery of his vision is all shadows. Athos shivers a little, stands, and turns on the hall light as well; then he sits again, back against the wall. Inside the bathroom he hears the sound of water sloshing gently.

“Porthos?”

“Your grout’s really clean,” Porthos says, the hoarseness of his voice magnified by the acoustics of the tiles.

“I soak cotton balls in bleach and stick them over it, and leave them overnight.”

“Oh.”

“Plus I generally shower in my bedroom, you know-- it’s you and Charlie, mostly, that shower in this one.”

More silence, until, so low it barely registers, Athos hears the sound of weeping gently echoing against the tiles. He puts his head back against the wall and says nothing. This is the part where’s he’s supposed to sing Billy Joel or something, or go into the bathroom anyway, but all Athos does is sit there until he hears the drain unplug, followed by a whirlpool whoosh of water.

“Can you bring me, um, clean pajamas?” Porthos calls.

Athos gets to his feet with a grunt, goes into the guest room, and finds a t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and boxers. He brings these, and a towel, to the bathroom, passes it around the doorframe.

Porthos emerges a few minutes later, sleepy-eyed and damp, and smelling like soap.

“Do you want to come lie down with me?” Athos offers, not meeting his eyes.

Porthos shakes his head. “Honestly, I might puke again. Kinda afraid I’d do it in your bed.”

“Okay. Do you want me to come lie with you? In the guest room?”

“Then I’d just be afraid of pukin’ on you. ‘sokay,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Honestly, I think I’d rather be alone.

“Okay.”

Athos really, really wants to hug Porthos now-- particularly since he has showered-- but he doesn’t think Porthos wants him to.

“Night,” he says, and Porthos smiles weakly, goes into the guest bedroom, and closes the door.

*

In the morning Athos can barely keep his eyes open; he sits in his armchair, downing cup after cup of coffee, hearing but not quite understanding the news on TV.

Porthos comes in around ten. His steps shake like those of a kid learning to walk; he makes it to the couch and curls up, hiding his face.

Athos crouches at his side, touches his forehead lightly. “Still feeling shitty?”

“Fuckin’ shitty,” Porthos agrees, not looking up. “Jus’ dry-heaved for like, ten minutes.”

“Yum,” Athos deadpans. “Do you want anything?”

“No.”

“You need water, at least. Or do you want ice to suck on?”

“‘m not in labor! Jesus, fuck off!” With what seems like a Herculean effort, Porthos rolls onto his other side and hides his face against the back of the sofa.

Athos turns off the news and goes into the kitchen. He gets a bottle of water and a big plastic bowl-- in case Porthos’ dry-heaves decide to become any wetter-- and leaves them on the floor at Porthos’ side before going out to the garden.

Then he sits.

It’s a cool, quiet morning; the sun is high enough to light the yard but not enough to be in his eyes. The grass sparkles with frost. There’s been no basil for months now, but he swears he can still smell it-- though whether it lingers in the soil or in his mind, he doesn’t know.

He’s warm enough in his sweater; though, motionless, his fingers feel the chill. Still he can’t bring himself to move just yet; the world is clear and calm and there are birds singing-- yes, actual birds singing, thank you very much-- and it’s just lovely. He’s never had a place like this before. Just being in the garden makes his heartbeat steady, makes his muscles loosen, and he feels no obligation to do anything but sit and breathe deeply.

The frost has mostly gone by the time he hears footsteps on the patio stairs. A moment later Porthos settles beside him; he rubs his forehead a moment, sighs, then flops against Athos.

“I told you to fuck off,” he mourns, nuzzling his face into Athos’ shoulder.

“I forgive you.”

“I was really nauseous.”

“We all say shitty things when we’re nauseous.”

“An’ I broke up with Aramis last night.”

“We all say shitty things when we’ve broken up with Aramis last night.”

Porthos lifts his head and offers a shaky smile. “Feels good t’be outside. The cold air feels good.”

“I need to work in the garden a bit. You could sit out here with me.”

“All right.”

Athos goes back inside and gets a blanket; when he hands it over, though, Porthos doesn’t spread it out to sit on. Instead he wraps it around his shoulders.

Athos smiles at him-- Porthos does not seem to notice, does not smile in return-- and sets about working the soil. D’Artagnan came by a few days ago, declared it dry enough. Athos turns it over, picks out dead plants and random bits of nonsense, thinking of what the space will look like two months from now.

This is how the morning passes.

Porthos seems utterly disinclined to leave, and Athos naturally would never plant the idea in his head. So, he stays. After they come in from the yard, they sit on the couch for a while; after that Porthos goes into the guest room, ostensibly for a nap. He’s only been gone a few minutes, though, when music begins to filter through the door.

Athos curls up on the couch, very aware that down the hall his best friend is listening to Joni Mitchell and probably crying his eyes out again, but Athos doesn’t go to him. If he wants privacy, he’s entitled.

The song he’s listening to is _Both Sides Now_ , and Athos wonders idly if he’s called it up on YouTube or if he actually had it on his phone already. Either way, it’s loud enough to be heard clearly.

_Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels_ , Joni sings, _the dizzy dancing way that you feel, as every fairytale comes real-- I’ve looked at love that way--_

_But now it’s just another show: you leave them laughing when you go. And if you care, don’t let them know-- don’t give yourself away--_

It’s tempting, in a weird way, to lie there and listen and maybe cry too. But that’s a slippery slope, so Athos pushes to his feet. The little starbursts that follow remind him that he hasn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, and neither has Porthos; and although Athos is by far the lesser chef of the two, he’s still capable of making something nice.

He tries to think of what he wants when he’s hungover. Generally speaking he just wants to throw up and sleep and possibly die-- but he always tends to want salt, too. Salt and starch and maybe protein.

These criteria in mind, Athos pokes around on google until he finds a recipe for chicken noodle casserole that does not require any unusual ingredients.

The song ends, begins again. Athos sets the oven to preheat and gets to work.

Porthos’ appearance when he finally arrives supports Athos’ crying hypothesis fully. His face is puffy and his eyes are red, and in the brief silence Athos can hear that his breathing is not entirely steady.

“Joni Mitchell?” Athos prompts. “Really, Porthos?”

“Couldn’ sleep,” Porthos replies, as though this explains everything-- because what else would one do, when unable to sleep, besides listen to gloomy singer-songwriters?

Porthos has sunk into a chair, and Athos goes to stand behind it. “Hungry at all?”

Porthos thinks a minute, then nods. “Stomach’s weird, bu’ not like, pukey weird.”

“I made a casserole. It’s got, um, four minutes left, then just a bit to cool.”

“Mm. Thought I smelled somethin’ nice.”

“How are you doing?”

Porthos tilts his head back, smiles weakly up at Athos. “’m okay. ‘s weird but, like-- I almost feel like I’ve gotta throw myself into this as much as I did bein’ with him, y’know? Fuck, ‘m like, thirty-five. An’ this is the first time I’ve ever, I dunno, first time ‘ve--”

“Had your heart broken?”

Porthos snorts. “Not hardly. But, yeah, I mean, broken like this. Never was, y’know, sixteen, cryin’ in the bathroom at prom or whatever.”

“If I didn’t teach high school, I might tell you that didn’t happen anyway.”

“But we both know that’d be a lie.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a chaperone cry at prom. In case you wanted to set a new trend.”

“Nah. I’ll just cry in your guest room.”

“Listening to Joni Mitchell.”

“Mm-hm.”

Athos lays a hand against Porthos’ forehead; Porthos tips slowly forward until his head is bobbing on the end of his neck, cradled by Athos’ palm. They stay this way until the timer goes off.

When it does, Athos takes the casserole from the oven, gets two plates from the cupboard, and busies himself with drinks while he waits for the food to cool just a little. Then he scoops out two portions and carries them over.

A tired smile is Porthos’ thanks; he mostly just picks at his food, but gets down some of the noodles and carrots. His reaction when Athos makes instant pudding is more eager, but only slightly.

Porthos is playing with the last few bites, dragging them around the bottom of the bowl, when he heaves a massive sigh. It sounds nearly a reflex.

“Hey.”

“Mm?” Athos tries not to sound too interested, though this is the first unprompted speech Porthos has offered in an hour now.

“D’you think I could-- stay a few days?”

Athos glances over; Porthos will not meet his eyes. “Of course,” Athos replies.

“Are you sure? I know it’s--”

“I’m sure.”

“Thanks,” Porthos says quietly. Then he stands and carried his bowl to the sink.

*

On Monday afternoon, Porthos’ car is in the driveway; this isn’t a problem, of course. Athos is (more than) happy to have him there. Still his stomach sinks a little-- wasn’t Porthos meant to meet up with Aramis after school today? Is it a bad sign that he hasn’t?

The mystery deepens for a moment as Athos goes inside, and Porthos himself is nowhere to be found. The door to the guest room is closed, though, which seems to suggest he’s inside. Athos hopes his friend is actually managing to get some sleep, at least, and maybe start feeling a bit better.

He goes about his own business; out the window, the sun sets. But Athos doesn’t actually _worry_ until Porthos himself comes stumbling out around 6:30.

He looks like hell. His brow is sweaty, eyes bleary; he’s dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt and wrapped up in a blanket like a makeshift cape.

“Hey,” Athos greets, from where he’s grading on the couch. “You feel okay?”

Porthos shakes his head, leaves a cushion between them when he collapses to the couch himself.

“What’s wrong?”

Porthos swallows a few times before rasping out, “throa’s kill’ me.”

“Like a cold, or worse?”

“Worse.”

Athos puts his pen down. “Will you let me look?”

Porthos nods.

Athos turns on the flashlight on his phone, scooches one cushion over, then cups a hand beneath Porthos’ jaw and thumbs lightly at his chin until Porthos opens his mouth. He peers inside. The back of his throat is swollen and red, and covered in whitish yellow patches; beneath Athos’ hand, Porthos’ skin feels overwarm.

“You’ve got strep,” Athos tells him, taking his hand away.

“Ha’ stre’ las’ yea’.”

“Are you in need of a lesson on infectious disease, or do you just mean it isn’t fair?”

“Is’uh’ fai’,” Porthos replies, then pouts so hard he makes himself smile. There’s no question that he’s feverish, but Athos presses the back of his hand to Porthos’ forehead anyway and lets Porthos lean into it.

“You stress-fucked your immune system,” Athos sighs.

“Mm.”

“Come on. There’s a clinic about five minutes from here that’s good, and weekdays they’re open ‘til nine.”

“Don’ wanna.”

Athos isn’t entirely sure if he’s joking or not; either way he rolls his eyes at him. “It’s strep. I’d put money on it. Which means you need antibiotics.”

Porthos closes his eyes and sits there another minute before mournfully abandoning his blanket cape. Then he toddles back into his bedroom for sneakers and his wallet. Athos feels oddly at ease with the situation as he guides Porthos to the car, drives him to the urgent care center, and waits with him until his name gets called.

That’s when it hits him, though, and his heart beats a little harder. He’s actually taking care of somebody-- and it’s not that he minds, just that he’d long ago realized this was something he’d opted out of.

Porthos isn’t with the doctor very long. He comes back into the waiting room with a prescription paper in his hand, then goes to the front desk, receives his paperwork, and shuffles back to Athos.

“Strep?” Athos prompts, as he pushes to his feet. Porthos nods.

“Okay.” Athos puts a hand on his arm to guide him. “Let’s get you home.”

Porthos has fully abandoned the situation to Athos. He lets himself he bullied into the car, lets Athos shut his door, then puts his head against the window until Athos gets in too and holds a hand out for the script. He hands over everything he’s got, the script and the paperwork too.

Athos glances down at it, seeing nothing out of the ordinary but noting that Porthos’ temperature was read at 103.1. “Porthos,” he sighs. “Your fever’s high, you know.”

Porthos shrugs, slides lower in the seat. “M’ fevers go high. Always ha’.”

“You can have Advil for it, right? Until the antibiotics kick in?”

Porthos nods, but doesn’t speak. Athos knows-- not only from Porthos’ expressions but from Athos’ own memory as well-- how much it hurts to talk with strep, so he leaves him be.

The clinic has sent the script to a CVS down the street. Athos wants to drop Porthos off home first, but he doesn’t know when the pharmacy closes, so Porthos waits in the car while Athos gets his medicine. He buys two boxes of popsicles, too, as well as a pint of sorbet and a bottle of throat-numbing spray.

When Athos gets back to the car he finds Porthos asleep, wrapped up tight against the door. He snuffles when Athos starts the engine. He stays asleep, though, until they pull into Athos’ driveway; even then he’s only semi-conscious as Athos herds him towards the front door and into the guest bedroom.

Porthos plops to the bed, kicks his shoes off. “Call out,” Athos reminds him, and Porthos nods and rouses himself enough to complete this task. Athos leaves him to it. He goes into the kitchen, puts away the sorbet and popsicles; then he shakes four Advils and an antibiotic into his hand, and brings these to Porthos with water.

Porthos is hunched in on himself, on the edge of the bed. He says nothing as Athos takes his hand and tips the pills into his palm, still nothing as he tosses them into his mouth and accepts the bottle of water.

“Judge me if I jus’ pass’ ou’?” he asks, finally. “Didn’ bru’ m’ teeth.”

“I won’t judge you,” Athos assures him, and Porthos flops back against the pillows and goes still.

Athos sets the water on the nightstand and closes the door behind him.

*

Athos wakes to the sound of glass shattering. He shouldn’t, by rights; it’s faint, far away, but he bolts awake as though every window in the house had broken at once. The covers fall to the floor as he scrambles out of bed. Throwing lights on as he goes, the abruptness of it hurting his eyes, he races down the hall.

Porthos is in the kitchen. There’s water, ice, and broken glass strewn around his bare feet; there’s a tear rolling down his cheek.

“I drop’ a glass,” he whispers, when he sees Athos. His eyes catch the light and glitter like the mess around his feet.

Athos hushes him as he scans the floor for shards. It’s mostly in front of Porthos, who is in front of the sink; there’s very little behind him, towards the stove. “Don’t move,” Athos commands. He gets the pair of flip-flops he leaves by the front door, then brings them back, going around the other side of the kitchen island, and places them at Porthos’ feet.

“Feet in,” he orders. Porthos blinks at the flip-flops like they’re the equation that’s finally stumped him. Athos crouches down, taps his right foot. After another long moment of confusion, Porthos braces his hand on Athos’ shoulder-- with his full weight, and Athos nearly goes down-- and gets one foot, then the other, into the slightly--too-small sandals.

Athos waits for Porthos to stand on his own. Then he pushes himself upright, ignoring the headrush, and coaxes him out of the kitchen, into the living room.

Porthos falls onto the couch, promptly slides to the floor. “’m sorr’,” he rasps. “I broke a glass.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Athos murmurs, kneeling beside him again. “Porthos, it’s just a glass. Hey, did you get cut anywhere?”

Porthos’ hands push with none of their usual strength as Athos tries to examine his friend’s exposed arms and legs. “’m contag’s,” Porthos protests. “Twen’y-four hour’.”

“Mm-hm,” Athos agrees, ignoring the feeble blows. “It didn’t get you anywhere I can see.”

Porthos sobs then, and the sound cuts Athos more efficiently than glass ever could; it scrapes up Porthos’ throat and down to Athos’ belly, and he puts a hand to Porthos’ burning chest as though grief were a button he could press to turn off.

“Sweetie, why are you crying?”

“Dunno.”

“Porthos, you’re worrying me,” Athos tells him, moving the hand to his forehead now. “Does it hurt that much?”

“No.”

“You’re not actually upset about the glass, are you?”

Under Athos’ fingers, Porthos shakes his head.

“You’re scaring me, sweetie,” Athos admits, moving both his hands over Porthos’ whole body now; his skin is hot and clammy, but his fever isn’t _worse_ than before-- at least Athos doesn’t think it is-- but over 103, that’s bad enough, isn’t it?

How bad is hospital bad?

But his last words have roused Porthos, more than anything else has. “Sorry, lovely,” he whispers, moving Athos’ hands away. “’m no’-- oh. ‘m jus’--”

He breaks off, breathing hard, but his expression is one of pain and frustration, not of confusion. His eyes meet Athos’.

“’m not,” he says again, enunciating despite his swollen throat, then uses his forefinger to draw circles in the air, around his ear. _I’m not loopy_ , Athos understands.

“Please tell me you’re sure, because I’m about thirty seconds from dragging your ass to the emergency room--”

“’m sure,” Porthos says, firmly. “Do no’-- dra’ m’ass-- to the ‘merge’cy-- mm. D’you know-- how mu’ it hur’s t’tal’?”

“I know. I know. But you realize, it’s two in the morning and you’re burning up and you’re _crying_ , and--”

And deciding whether or not to take somebody to the ER in the middle of the night is another thing Athos had thought he’d opted out of. Something you really only do for a member of your family. He is _not_ fucking _qualified_ to be making this decision, in more ways than one--

Porthos takes his hand. “Athos, stop,” he orders. “ _Stop_. I am no’-- _disoriente’_. ‘m jus’ a fat fucki’ crybaby, an’ ‘m sorry I woke you u’.”

Their fingers squeeze together. Okay, so no hospital, but Athos is far from convinced, especially as he watches new tears swell up and run down Porthos’ cheeks.

“Why are you crying, sweetie?” he pleads. “Tell me.”

And Porthos’ face _crumples_. “’cause,” he whispers. “’cause ‘m fucki’ alone. _Again_. Sorry-- sorry--”

“Oh, Porthos,” Athos breathes, and wraps his arms around Porthos’ shoulders; the big body heaves beneath him, fighting to keep the weeping silent.

“You’re not alone, Porthos,” Athos soothes, rubbing Porthos’ back. “I’m with you. I’m here.”

This doesn’t stop him crying, not that Athos thought it would.

“I know it’s hard now; I know how much you wanted you and Aramis to work. It’s okay, Porthos, just-- just-- go ahead and have a cry about it.”

“Ngh. It hur’s,” Porthos sobs, and Athos is halfway into the deep emotional meaning behind this before he remembers that Porthos has strep-fucking-throat. Crying must be agony.

“Fuck,” Athos bleats. “You’re honestly just having a really bad week, my friend.”

Porthos hitches with one sharp laugh; he nods against Athos’ shoulder.

Athos runs a hand up and down his spine. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetie, it’ll all hurt less soon. I promise. I promise. Do you want a popsicle?”

Porthos nods again, and pulls blearily away. He’s an absolute mess, pleasant face all puffed up and ugly with tears, and Athos kisses his forehead before getting to his feet. In the kitchen he steps around the glass and gets two peach popsicles from the freezer. Then he goes back to the living room, hands one to Porthos, and curls up at his side.

Porthos sniffles, obediently brings it to his mouth. The onslaught of tears has tempered to occasional drops, which slide into Porthos’ beard as he sucks at the popsicle. He relaxes fractionally as it numbs his throat.

Athos eats his too, the coldness and the brightness of the peach unexpected in the middle of the night-- but then again there’s none of this he has expected.

Eventually their popsicles are gone. Porthos pulls in a deep breath, blows it out through pursed lips, and sags forward.

“How are you doing?” Athos prompts, plucking the popsicle stick from Porthos’ fingers.

“Fee’ awfu’.”

“Can I get you anything?”

It’s a moment before Porthos huffs out, “we’ washcloth?”

Athos gets to his feet again and goes into the bathroom, where he throws away the popsicle sticks and dampens one of the handtowels with cool water. He brings it back to Porthos, who presses it over his eyes.

Porthos falls asleep like this: on the floor with his back against the couch, towel over his face, head lolling against his own hand. He doesn’t stir when Athos takes the towel away. He barely even stirs a few minutes later, when Athos coaxes him up onto the couch; he moans once, but his eyes do not open.

Athos spreads a blanket over him, waist-down only. Then he gets a broom and a pair of old sneakers from the hall closet, and sets about cleaning up the glass.

*

Athos sleeps in his armchair. Porthos sleeps on the couch, tucked up at first but later sprawled out boneless as a sack of flour. He grunts a little, when Athos’ alarm goes off, but doesn’t seem to wake.

Athos pushes himself to his feet with a grunt of his own, achy and exhausted and sporting a cut up his thumb that is certainly not going to kill him but probably should have been washed and bandaged last night. He takes a long shower-- the kind of shower where you close your eyes, almost sleep again, upright.

Finished, he dresses, makes himself coffee but no oatmeal, then goes into the living room and settles on the armchair. He stays as long as he reasonably can, before getting to his feet.

“Porthos,” Athos says, crouching beside him. “Wake up, sweetie--”

Porthos grunts. “’m ‘wake,” he whispers. “Jus’ didn’ wan’ open my eyes.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Li’ shi’.” He cracks open the lid on one dark brown eye. “Time’s i’?”

“Little after seven. I’m heading out soon, just wanted to see if you needed anything?”

Porthos shuts his eye again, shakes his head. “’mma go ba’ t’sleep.”

“Remember to take your meds at eight. Did you set an alarm?”

Porthos shakes his head again. Athos goes into his bedroom, finds his phone, guesses the passcode on the second try, and sets an alarm labeled with a row of emoji pills. He brings the phone, antibiotics, Advil, a bottle of water, and a cup of applesauce into the living room.

He’s forgotten the thermometer, but a hand to Porthos’ forehead tells him the fever is blazing away steadily. “Advil,” Athos says, nudging Porthos awake again. “Do you want some applesauce?”

“Nn.”

“Will it bother your stomach, taking Advil without food?”

Porthos shakes his head. He raises his head long enough to swallow the pills Athos puts in his hand and drain the whole bottle of water, then flops back down.

Athos takes the empty bottle into the kitchen. By the time he’s refilled it and brought it back, Porthos is asleep again. He’s drooling a little, too. His skin is flushed and there’s sweat along his hairline, at his temples; even sleeping he looks sick and unhappy.

Suddenly, _intensely_ , Athos does not want to leave him. Does not want to go further than the armchair, where he can perch and keep watch, keep guard, over his ailing friend.

It’s not _not_ an option. He has, impressively, missed only one day so far, and they’re already into the third marking period.

But it’s well past six, when he would have needed to call by. And besides, Porthos is not only sick, he’s also a fucking wreck right now; maybe he wants a little space.

Still, Athos rushes home the moment the clock hits 3:15. He doesn’t really expect anything to be wrong, but nevertheless feels a definite flutter of relief when he bounds in the front door to see Porthos curled up on the sofa, eating a popsicle.

“Hey,” Athos breathes. “How are you doing?”

“Little better, I guess,” Porthos rasps. His voice sounds like it’s been dragged behind an eighteen-wheeler for a few long miles, but it doesn’t precisely sound _swollen_ anymore.

“Meds doing their duty?”

“Kicked in, like, an hour or two ago,” Porthos replies. “Still not feelin’ great, but I can talk. For the most part.”

Athos smiles, feeling awkward out of the blue, and for no specific reason.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asks, dumping his laptop bag by his chair.

Porthos salutes with his popsicle stick.

“Have you eaten anything else?”

“No.”

“Applesauce? Sorbet? Soup?”

Porthos’ eyes go a little dreamy at this. “Soup?” he grates out.

“Soup,” Athos repeats, and all but dashes to the kitchen.

He heats up a bowl of chicken and rice-- not from scratch, but at least it’s name brand-- and puts the kettle on as well. When it’s finished he takes the soup and a cup of chamomile tea in to Porthos.

“Do you want me to put on _Lord of the Rings_?” he asks, trying to sound casual, as he helps Porthos settle the soup in his lap.

Porthos thinks a minute, then shakes his head. “Do you have, um, _Star Wars_?”

Athos does, so a few minutes later _A New Hope_ is on the television and Porthos is dutifully swallowing little spoonfuls of chicken broth. He’s only just finishing when Luke and Ben meet Han.

But when he sets his bowl down on the end table, he grabs the remote from beside it and pauses the screen. Athos looks up from where he’s grading in his chair.

“Are you--” Porthos begins, then has to stop and clear his throat. “Are you okay, um, coming near me?”

Athos raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“’m still contagious, technically.”

“You were contagious last night,” Athos reminds him, and though his intentions are harmless, Porthos blushes a little. He looks at his knees and doesn’t meet Athos eyes as he speaks.

“Can you sit with me?”

 Leaving the papers on the floor, Athos stands, kicks in the foot rest, and goes over to the couch. Porthos swings his feet down, and Athos settles beside him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Athos asks, softly.

Porthos is silent a long time before replying. “’s not that I don’t wanna talk about it,” he whispers at last, rubbing absently at his knees. “Jus’ there’s not much more t’say.”

“I didn’t mean I wanted an explanation,” Athos tells him, looking straight ahead. “I mean, if you, um-- if you wanted to talk. I was asking if it would make you feel better.”

Porthos says nothing to this. Instead he closes his eyes and tips against Athos, settling his weight there slowly, gently. Athos gets an arm around him and bundles him close.

Time passes. “You should call out again,” Athos murmurs eventually-- then, before Porthos can argue, adds, “yes, you should.”

“Twenty-four hours on antibiotics--”

“School rule is twenty-four hours _with no fever_ ,” Athos rebuts, and Porthos sighs.

“I am pretty worn out,” he admits. Athos finds his cell phone, lost in the sea of blankets, hands it over, and watches Porthos dial.

“Oh, hey, Susanna.” Porthos smiles when the ling connects. Athos smiles too; leave it to Porthos to actually know the person manning the hotline. “Yeah, just tomorrow. Meds’re kickin’ in, so-- strep. Yeah. Second year in a row. Okay. Thanks. See you soon.” Porthos hangs up, tosses his phone back into the blankets, and yawns.

Rather than assume the same position they’d been in, Athos tucks his legs up to the side, fits a pillow against his knees, and waits for Porthos to lie down on it. This takes approximately five seconds. Athos lays a hand on Porthos’ forehead and rubs his thumb there gently until Porthos dozes off.

As much as he wants to just stay there, he rouses Porthos and sends him to bed.

*

Porthos is still sleeping when Athos leaves for work the next morning, but in the afternoon he’s back on the couch. The first thing Athos notices is that he’s changed pajamas. Then, in rapid succession, he takes in a few other good signs: a book open instead of the TV on, and a plate with sandwich crumbs sitting on the end table.

“Hey,” Athos says, dropping onto the couch beside Porthos, touching a hand to his forehead. “Oh, you feel a lot cooler.”

“Yeah, was under a hundred last time I took it, an’ that’s with no Advil since last night. I feel _so_ much better.”

“I’m glad,” Athos says, smiling.

Porthos smiles back. “Thanks for takin’ care of me.”

“I’m glad I could,” Athos mumbles, letting Porthos draw him into a sideways sort of hug. “There’s so much in this world that I couldn’t’ve done anything about--”

“You were perfect, lovely.”

Athos thinks he may be blushing now. He hides his face against Porthos’ shoulder and does not say anything about how much he secretly enjoyed it. Not Porthos’ misery, of course-- and possibly none of it, in the moment. But in retrospect it’s all a bit warm in his belly, comfortable and uncomplicated, and Athos realizes he’s actually a little proud of himself.

And once he’s started, it’s hard to stop. Porthos goes to work on Thursday but comes home exhausted and running a low fever; Athos sits with him on the couch until he falls asleep, then makes pancakes and eggs for dinner.

On Friday Porthos is nearly well. Still Athos makes dinner, and tea after, and fusses at Porthos to get enough sleep until Porthos relents and goes to bed just after 9:00.

On Saturday morning Porthos is already drinking coffee when Athos gets up. He’s dressed well for a weekend, and his expression is a little spacey as Athos helps himself to a cup and settles at the table.

“Everything all right?”

“Mm,” Porthos grunts. Athos leaves him be. A few seconds later, though, he sighs, and offers his thoughts without further prompting.

“Gettin’ breakfast with Aramis. Can you believe he agreed to get up so early?” Porthos smiles weakly. “We was supposed to get dinner last Monday but you know, my immune system had other plans.”

“Right.”

“So, yeah. Breakfast, then I figured I’d, um. Come over an’ get my shit together an’ let you have your house back.”

“Oh. Right.”

Porthos glances at the clock on the stove; it’s barely 8:00. “Not gon’ lie,” he mumbles, “we’re not meetin’ til ten but I’m-- I’m gonna drive a bit. Clear my head. Okay?”

“Yeah, of course. When you-- when you come back to get everything you can tell me about it, okay? I bet it’ll go well.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, but doesn’t smile.

*

When Porthos comes home he looks quite honestly ill again; he’s sagged in on himself like a melting snowman, and his eyes are puffed-up and glassy.

“Back,” he huffs, falling onto the couch.

Athos, who spent the morning running a few quick errands then puttering around the garden, tries not to flee to his side too quickly.

“How’d it go?”

Porthos shrugs. “We’re okay. I mean that: we’re okay. We hugged an’ cried an’ whatever, an’ I honest-- honest to _God_ think we’re still friends. Thank God, y’know? I just--”

“What?”

“It kills me,” Porthos mutters, “how two people can be, like, aimed at each other-- aimed so _perfectly_ at each other-- an’ miss. Just-- skate off each other like--”

He puts his hands out, moves them in opposite directions; they brush, just for a moment, then keep moving apart.

“Porthos,” Athos says, quietly. “Did you go to breakfast this morning thinking you and Aramis would get back together? Romantically?”

“No,” Porthos snaps. Then: “yes. Maybe. I dunno.”

His hands are still hovering like airplanes over his lap; he drops them, then immediately brings them up to his face.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“It’s stupid,” Porthos croaks, but puts his head up. “Remember I told you my lease is up at the end of this month?”

“Mm.”

“I told-- I guess I counted my chickens too soon, y’know? I told my landlord I was movin’ out. Movin’ in with somebody. I don’t think she’s got another renter yet, so I’m sure I’ll be able t’stay, but-- I dunno. It’s-- I dunno. She was really happy for me. It was cute. It’s embarrassing to turn back around and be like, nevermind-- no happy ending for Porthos du- _fucking_ -Vallon.”

“Porthos--”

“Just-- I’m so tired of bein’ alone so much, Ath. I’m tired of comin’ home to nobody. Honestly I think ‘swhy you’ve had so much trouble gettin’ rid of me.”

“I haven’t wanted to get rid of you.”

“I kinda like this,” Porthos continues, as though he hadn’t heard. “But I’ll leave today. I swear.”

Out of nowhere but very distinctly, Athos thinks he might throw up.

“You’re welcome as long as you like,” he mumbles.

“You haven’t had a minute t’yourself in a week now.”

“I, um--”

Athos’ mind draws a blank.

“Speaking of,” he grinds out, “I-- need the bathroom. Be right back.”

Athos stands, goes into the bathroom, turns on the water, and sits down on the edge of tub. For half a second even he’s not sure why he’s fled. His stomach is uneasy and he thinks for one long dizzy moment that he actually is going to be sick, but that’s not it.

That’s not it.

Eventually he turns off the water, goes back to stand before Porthos.

He inhales, holds it, and says, “move in with me.”

“What?”

“Move,” Athos repeats, “the fuck. In. With me.”

Porthos only frowns.

Athos stalks back to his side, sits, but does not look at him.

“You’re my best friend,” Athos says, nearly reciting. “I’ll never have a family, Porthos; I’ll never get married. And I’m not calling you the next best thing. I’m calling you-- my version of that. Fuck it, Porthos, I don’t think I _want_ a lover! I just want somebody to talk to about the day and watch movies with me and, you know, I don’t know, drive me back from my colonoscopies when I’m fifty and drugged-up and gassy. Who the fuck wants to take a cab like that? I don’t even think they let you take a cab! I just want-- somebody who’ll be there from one day to the next. Somebody I can count on. Just-- be my person, Porthos. Christ, I’m babbling! I never babbled before the Prozac, did I?”

“Only about history,” Porthos replies, softly.

It isn’t until Porthos’ fingers loop with his that Athos realizes he’s shaking. His hand jitters in Porthos’ grasp.

“Did I just turn you off to the idea entirely?”

But Porthos smiles. “No. No, not at all, Ath. Guess I was just takin’ it in. It’s a moment I’ll wanna remember, ‘m guessin’. I mean, _Lord of the Ring_ marathons every weekend, an’ drivin’ your crotchety old ass to the butt doctor? Who could say no to that?”

Now Athos is the one who takes a moment to process. “Wait. You’re saying yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll-- I mean-- do you actually want to move in with me? You don’t-- that’s not a requirement.”

“No, I’d like to. I really would.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Porthos laughs, “‘sthat hard to believe? The weeks I’ve been hangin’ around here-- well, either you’ve been in a pile of shit, or I’ve been. But I’ve kind of liked it. Seein’ your bedhead. Askin’ you where the salt grinder’s gone.” His smile softens. “You know, until Aramis, I never even-- it never even crossed my mind, that I might get married. Not really. An’-- well, now, I won’t. I won’t, Ath. If it weren’t him, it won’t be nobody. I guess I always figured, that I’d be somebody who just bumped along an’ fell over the horizon one day. Seems like that’ll be true. But we could bump along together. That’d be all right.”

Athos has launched himself sideways before he even knows he’s going to; he wraps his arms around Porthos’ neck and buries his face there as well. Porthos laughs, hugs him so hard his butt lifts up from the couch.

“You mean this, right?” Porthos whispers, and the hesitation-- the _hope_ \-- in his voice is real. Porthos wants this too.

Porthos wants this too.

“I _really_ mean this,” Athos chokes out. “Do you really mean this?”

“Fuck yeah,” Porthos replies, and Athos feels himself sob, just a little, but enough that Porthos hugs him even closer, shimmying him side-to-side.

“If you cry, I’ll cry, lovely,” he murmurs. Then his tone changes abruptly. “ _Yyoo_ ,” he moans, in a fabulous imitation of a sixteen-year-old. “I’m’nna live, like, two minutes from work! Oh my god!”

Athos snorts a slightly wet laugh into Porthos’ shoulder, reminds him that he lives a good six minutes away even if one hits all the green lights-- then he stops himself. “ _We_ live,” he corrects.

“See that? ‘m gonna cry, I mean it.”

“I hardly mind.”

“Later,” Porthos promises, and squeezes Athos one more time before letting go. “Hate to interrupt emotion with, um, pragmatics, but-- if we’re really doin’ this-- yeah, I know, I know we are, I’ve just got a complex, lovely-- so we’re doin’ this and I’ve got, like, stuff. A lot of stuff. An’ it’s all ‘bout an hour away.”

“Oh,” Athos says, and Porthos bursts out laughing.

*

The rest of the month is a blur of packing and driving and unloading and more driving. And more packing. And arguments about whose kitchen table is in the best shape. And more driving.

When they tell d’Artagnan he hugs them both and demands to be invited to dinner at least once a week, then begins offering meal suggestions.

Porthos asks Athos not to tell Aramis until he gives the go-ahead.

On the night Porthos turns in his apartment keys, he and Athos sprawl, exhausted, on a pile of pillows in the middle of the living room floor. They’re just finishing up the second bottle of wine when Porthos sighs.

“People’ll think we’re together.”

“Probably,” Athos replies.

“Won’t bother you?”

“Why would it?”

Porthos rolls over, regards Athos with narrowed eyes-- though the gravity of his expression is tempered by the fact that Athos is seeing it upside-down. “Well, I’m not quite sure what you are. Who you-- sorry-- how you identify yourself, you know. But you’ve gotta know, you’re straight ‘til you prove otherwise. Least, to everybody watchin’. Whatever you are, you’re straight right now-- at least you were. An’ now you won’t be.”

“I’m not anything, Porthos,” Athos replies, with a shaky smile. “Honestly. There’s been one person I’ve ever felt anything romantic for, and she was a woman, but I’m not sure what means much.”

“You won’t mind, then? People thinkin’ you’re fuckin’ a man?”

“As long as you don’t actually expect me to fuck you.”

“You won’t mind them thinkin’-- you’re fuckin’ a black guy?”

Athos sits up so fast he sees stars. Porthos tries to hide his pinched-up face against one of the pillows, but Athos hauls him upwards, doesn’t let him get away. “I will not,” he intones, “at all mind the assumption that I am sharing my life or my bed with a brilliant, generous, sincere, talented, cuddly, fucking black guy.”

Porthos’ nose scrunches up. Athos still won’t let him go so he tugs one hand free and hides his face with this. “Well, I don’t mind your skinny white ass, neither,” he grunts, and Athos hugs him tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is wandering well far away from where it began, so I thank those of you who are sticking it with! I’m definitely being a bit selfish with this fic. I’ve needed (for a while, I think) to see an honest, modern-setting discussion of depression, and that’s what this fic turned into. 
> 
> Now I think I’m feeling the need to see a happy queerplatonic relationship, and so this fic has just steered itself there. I really do love Portamis and I hope I haven’t mislead or disappointed anybody who was reading this fic because it included that ship. 
> 
> With every year that passes I feel less and less that I’ll ever get married or have a traditional life partner, and I find myself daydreaming about a sort of live-in, no-romantic-expectations best friend. So. Here we are :)


	4. Fourth Marking Period

Living with Porthos means a lot of things.

Living with Porthos means wearing pants, all the time.

Living with Porthos means not letting dishes pile up until every bowl is dirty.

Living with Porthos means that when Athos opens the produce drawer in the fridge, instead of finding beer and rotten lettuce, he finds spinach and celery and radishes and carrots-- fucking carrots that are not only orange, no, but white and yellow and purple.

Living with Porthos means purple carrots where there used to be booze and mold.

And it means having a teammate, when he’d long since abandoned the hope of such a thing.

It’s not that they do everything together. Just that they do a nice mixture of important and unimportant things together, somehow getting the ratio just right.

Such as: they eat dinner together. They do not eat breakfast together, because Porthos prefers the extra fifteen minutes in bed that skipping breakfast affords him. They watch movies together. They do not watch the news together, because Porthos prefers to listen to it on the radio, on the way to work. That as well-- they don’t drive together. But pretty much every night they spend at least half an hour sitting on the couch together, just unwinding together, sleepy and content.

Aramis still doesn’t know, but d’Artagnan is _thrilled_ by it. Last week, even before Porthos was fully moved in, they’d planned the boy’s 25 th birthday together. Athos had made a nice French dinner. Porthos had hunted down a plethora of decorations meant for a 100th birthday party, then used a sharpie to change every instance of _100_ to _100/4_.

And they deal together with what comes next, too.

*

March 25th is a Saturday this year.

It’s the morning after Porthos handed in his keys; the first real morning that they _live_ together, though Porthos has been sleeping at the house for weeks now.

Athos wakes up hungover, but happy. He chokes down some Advil, brushes his teeth, and wanders into the living room to find Porthos, fresh from the shower, watching Food Network on the couch.

Athos plops down beside him, buries his head in Porthos’ shoulder.

“Mornin’,” Porthos whispers.

“M’rnin’,” Athos slurs back. “Happy, um.”

“Happy first--”

“Yeah. Happy first.”

Porthos laughs. Athos falls back asleep for a little while, but when he wakes up the second time, his mind finally processes what day it is. He blinks his eyes open and sits up.

“What time is it?”

“Bit after one.”

“Have you heard from d’Artagnan?”

Porthos shakes his head. “I’ll call him.”

“Invite him over,” Athos says, and Porthos nods absently, getting to his feet and going into the kitchen. Athos follows.

He listens to the ringback; hears the boy’s voice answer.

“Hey,” Porthos greets, taking a mug out for coffee. “Just callin’ to say hi. See how you are. You tell me t’fuck off if you wanna but-- mm.”

Porthos goes silent a moment; then his face falls. “Aw, sweetheart, it’s okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He puts his mug down, goes out the screen door to the backyard, and sits on the porch steps. He stays there a long while. When he finally comes back his face is grey, and his eyes are hooded.

“Should I go pick him up?” Athos offers, quietly, but Porthos shakes his head.

“He wants the day to himself. Which is, y’know. I get it.”

Athos fights not to frown as the big brother in him protests the notion of d’Artagnan, obviously upset, staying all by himself. If he needs a little solitude, he’s entitled. That doesn’t mean Athos has to like it, though.

Porthos doesn’t seem to like it, either; he stomps around for the next few hours, cleaning things that are already clean, tidying things that are already tidy.

He’s swiffered the kitchen tile twice when the doorbell rings. Athos and Porthos flee simultaneously, and open the door to a tall, skinny figure, haloed by the fading rays of sunlight.

D’Artagnan’s eyes are puffy, jaw bearing a day’s worth of stubble. Nevertheless he smiles widely, salutes with the bottle in his hand, and comes inside.

Porthos all but pounces on him. He wraps his arms around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, so tightly that d’Artagnan cannot shimmy out to return the hug; they stand there until Athos kicks Porthos lightly in the shin. He lets go then, finally, and Athos takes his turn.

“We didn’t begrudge you your privacy,” he says, softly, as d’Artagnan nuzzles against him. “But all things considered I’m glad you’re here.”

“Mm. ‘s convenient, the two of you in the same place.”

“How are you doing?” Athos asks, as they pull away.

“Okay, I guess. We’re gonna get drunk, though.”

Athos fights back a wince, having recovered from his hangover only an hour or two ago. D’Artagnan laughs at him. He waves the bottle in his hand, which Athos now notes is a mid-range brand of tequila.

Porthos pulls a face as he takes the bottle from him. “Not for nothin’, pup, but you know it’s mostly been whiskey for me since I turned thirty.”

Athos nods in agreement.

“Well I’m sorry you’re both fucking old,” d’Artagnan sniffs. “If my dad were here, he’d insist we have brandy-- but he’s not here, and I’m twenty-five, and we’re doing tequila shots.”

“We’re doin’ tequila shots,” Porthos tells Athos, _sotto voce_ , as though Athos’s aged ears may not have heard.

“I don’t suppose you remembered any limes?” Athos sighs.

D’Artagnan has no limes, so Athos goes into the kitchen for three shot glasses and some cut lemons. He comes back to find them on the floor by the couch, Porthos sniffing the open bottle with distaste. Still he rallies himself to the cause as d’Artagnan pours three shots; they down them, then two more each in rapid succession. Athos bites hard on his lemon wedge, the burn of acid fighting that of alcohol.

Athos and Porthos stop after four shots apiece. D’Artagnan forges on, but rather than getting shouty-drunk or weepy-drunk or pukey-drunk, he just goes quiet and curls up with his head on Porthos’ thigh. Athos covers him with a blanket, gives him a pillow to hug. Porthos strokes his hair, which slips back over his face no matter how many times it’s moved, so Porthos just keeps at it.

“Is he asleep?” Athos whispers, after d’Artagnan’s been still a while. It’s almost eight and they haven’t had dinner, but Athos suspects the boy is going to sleep right through.

Porthos peers down at him; his hand stops moving, then starts again. “I think so,” he whispers back.

“Ngh,” d’Artagnan grunts, and Porthos laughs. “’m not asleep. ‘m fucking tired, though.”

“I hope you realize you’re staying the night,” Athos says.

“Hope you realize I was n’ver not planning to,” d’Artagnan replies, opening his eyes at last. He crawls from the floor to the couch. “I love this couch. I have been drunk on this couch-- more than once.”

“Dinner?” Athos prompts.

“Not hungry,” d’Artagnan grunts. He feels blindly on the floor for his abandoned blanket, finds it after a few failed attempts, and pulls it over his legs.

And then, it seems, he really does fall asleep. Porthos and Athos, not fully sober themselves, have leftovers for dinner and sit in the living room with d’Artagnan until eleven or so, when they finally feel secure in going to bed.

*

Athos wakes to the smell of coffee. He tiptoes into the kitchen to find Porthos pouring himself a mug; he smiles up at Athos when he hears him come in, and Athos returns it, as best as he can.

Porthos gets another mug of coffee, and they sit at the table. It’s only the second morning but already it feels like forever, already it feels so familiar that he’s content just to stay in silence and drink his coffee with Porthos at hand.

It’s not long before they hear d’Artagnan bumping around. Half a minute later he waves hello as he passes them on the way down the hall; there’s the sound of water, then the toilet flushing, then he wanders back in.

“Mornin’,” he rasps, squinting a little. He shuffles to Porthos’ side, stands there expectantly. Porthos indulges him, rubs his arm.

“You sleep okay?” he prompts.

“Mm.”

“You hungover?”

“Mm.”

“ _Mm_?”

“A li’l,” d’Artagnan mumbles. “Not bad, though. Jus’ a headache.”

“Stomach’s fine?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You want breakfast, then?”

D’Artagnan’s reply is a moan, which is sleepy and awkwardly lustful. Porthos laughs.

“Bacon pancakes?”

“ _God_ ,” d’Artagnan groans; Porthos rubs his arm again.

“Awright. Athos, how ‘bout you go cuddle while I make breakfast?”

Athos salutes, gets to his feet, and leads d’Artagnan into the living room; he’s utterly unsurprised when he sits and the boy immediately flops against him.

“I lied,” d’Artagnan murmurs, hair fluttering over his lips.

“Did you?”

“I’m-- more than slightly hungover. Not horribly. Just-- moderately.”

“Was it a lie that you slept well too, then?”

“Mm-- not really. I slept okay, actually. Dunno why I’m still tired. I mean, it’s just-- exhausting. Being sad.” He blinks up at Athos. “Um. Sorry.”

“I don’t own the rights,” Athos soothes, running his fingers through d’Artagnan’s inky hair. “You can be sad if you need to, Charlie.”

And d’Artagnan must listen, because a few seconds later a tear plops onto Athos’ belly. He breathes a careful sigh. Then he sniffles, very quietly, and presses his face into Athos’ chest.

Athos lays a hand on the back of his neck. He’s been waiting for this, honestly, because d’Artagnan is just like he is: doesn’t really get what needs to out of crying if he does it alone.

“Hey, okay,” Athos murmurs. “Get it out of you, come on.”

D’Artagnan weeps, then. He glubs softly, like a little kid, coughing against Athos’ shoulder once or twice with no real force behind it. Athos thumbs the smooth skin of his neck.

Porthos comes into the living room eventually, looks them over; his smile fades, but doesn’t vanish. “Pancakes,” he says, and goes back into the kitchen.

D’Artagnan raises his head slowly, rubbing tears from his cheeks as he does so. He breathes a quiet sigh.

“My dad’s dead,” he mumbles.

“I know, sweetie--”

But then, unexpectedly, d’Artagnan laughs. He sits up all the way and finishes drying his cheeks. “Points for endless patience, but you didn’t let me finish. Was going to say, my dad’s dead and yet somehow-- leaking _water_ out of my fucking _eyes_ makes me feel better. Humans are so weird.”

With that, he kisses Athos in thanks, gets to his feet, and goes into the kitchen. Athos follows. Porthos has set the table already, with three piles of pancakes, butter, and more coffee; he catches Athos’ eye, and they smile privately.

Taking care of d’Artagnan has always come naturally. But taking care of d’Artagnan in tandem with Porthos, well--

There’s just nothing that doesn’t feel easier, with Porthos at his side.

*

A few days later Athos and Porthos are called to Treville’s office together. Athos almost laughs when the announcement blares over the loudspeaker on their lunch period:

_Please pardon this interruption. Would Mister LaFere and Mister duVallon please report to the office? LaFere and duVallon, to the office. Thank you._

How the hell does even the captain know to package them together now?

The answer, in short, is that he doesn’t. Not at first, anyway. Treville smirks as they enter his office; he pulls out a dangerous-looking binder, and hands it to Porthos.

“Oh, right,” Porthos says, without inflection.

It’s his turn to chaperone senior trip.

The duty roster for senior trip is a little convoluted, but mostly works out to once every four years for the upperclassmen teachers. Porthos has not chaperoned the past three years. Athos wonders, though, why he’s here-- he chaperoned two years ago, after all-- then he sees Treville eyeing him up, and sighs.

“Say it,” he huffs.

Treville’s smirk deepens.

“Say it. Clever, calling us both in at the same time. Say it, John.”

“It’s my turn this year--”

“And?”

“--my niece is getting married that week.”

Porthos snorts, elbows Athos in the ribs.

“I was hoping you could cover for me.”

It’s perhaps something of a leftover from his worst times, how immediately he wants to say no to anything out of the ordinary. Not to mention, chaperoning senior trip is stressful beyond belief.

“Are you really so hard-up for chaperones?” he sighs.

“Honestly? Somebody’s forgotten to update the roster the past few years. Still have your boy d’Herblay slated for this year, for example. Lopez is pregnant, so that’s two down already. Bowden will almost definitely play the bum knee card, so--”

“Fine,” Athos says, trying to bite back his smile.

Treville does not bother to hide his own. “Wonderful. I’ll tell you what, as thanks, I’ll send your puppy along, too. The students all adore him, and you know I like to give the underclassmen teachers a chance every now and then.”

“He’ll be thrilled,” Athos drawls-- all the while knowing that actually, unsarcastically, d’Artagnan will in fact be thrilled.

“Excellent. Few more teachers to speak to, and you’ll have the finalized list by the end of the day. Only a few weeks left to go!”

Porthos is actually quite cheery as they leave the office; Athos finds that he himself is, too. Senior trip is stressful as hell. But it is also, to be fair, a free trip to Disneyworld, and a chance to watch the kids have fun. And, it would seem, they’re going together.

The list Treville promised materializes not by the end of the day, but quite early the next morning. Athos and Porthos are in the same group. D’Artagnan is also there (and when he’d texted the night before he’d been predictably pleased about it) but the next name is what catches Athos by surprise.

Porthos notices too, obviously.

“You didn’t take Aramis off,” Porthos notes, frowning slightly. They’re once again in front of Treville’s desk, and the lists in their hands are still warm from the copier. “You found somebody to replace him, right?”

“Oh, I thought I’d told you,” Treville replies, absently. “No, Aramis is coming. Richelieu owed me a favor, and I called it in; so many of the seniors have missed him since he left, I figured, this would be a good little last hoorah.”

Porthos says nothing. They linger a minute more before taking their copies and heading out of the office, Athos eyeing Porthos cautiously the whole way.

Athos knows that he and Aramis have seen each other, of course. They had brunch together the week after breaking up, and they saw each other at d’Artagnan’s birthday, and-- and--

Has that really been it? Those two times? Athos wracks his brains trying to think of another, but truthfully Porthos has spent most of his free time with Athos lately, and--

And, yes. As far as Athos can tell, Porthos and Aramis have only seen each other twice since breaking up.

And now they’re about to go to Florida together.

*

Senior trip comes like a bullet train. Before Athos knows it he’s standing in the school parking lot in the dead of night, blinking through clouds of his own foggy breath at the hoards of students shoving their luggage into the buses’ storage.

The cold is all that’s keeping his eyes open. He’s even rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, just to add to it, and he’s beginning to shiver a little while he listens to Porthos calling directions.

Porthos is wide awake. Porthos is, on most days, nothing but a pile of squishy uselessness at six in the morning-- and yet here they are, and it’s not even four, and he’s not missing a beat.

D’Artagnan’s equally perky. He’s stationed at the door of one bus, ticking students off as they climb up the stairs; he’s got sunglasses on the top of his head, though not even the fucking moon is out, and he’s grinning just as widely as the kids.

At least Aramis seems to agree with Athos, about the whole exhaustion thing. Though he hugged and greeted his former students with all the enthusiasm in the world fifteen minutes ago, now he’s lingering quietly at Athos’ side, fighting to keep the smile from drooping off his face.

They aren’t the only four teachers, of course. There are sixteen in total, for a little less than 300 kids; the sheer size of the operation gives Athos a stomachache, but they’ve broken things up into four groups-- of four teachers and 70-some kids-- which makes it a bit more manageable. Still, staring down the operation is somewhat terrifying.

But they get the kids on the bus and to the airport, somehow; Porthos sits with d’Artagnan and Aramis sits with some former students, and Athos mostly prowls down the aisle, though he’s sleepy and stumbles whenever they accelerate, so he can’t look all that threatening. Not that he’s really trying to.

At the airport, they are mercifully allowed through the group security check; everyone gets to the gate, gets their passes, and at last they line up and board.

It’s a damn big plane, and they’ve got most of it. Rather than having assigned seats though, their group simply has a massive chunk of rows and, within that, the students sit where they please. It’s a useful trick.

They let the kids pick first, of course. When the smoke clears, though, there are no chunks of four seats left, and Athos realizes, without any real concern, that the four of them won’t be able to sit all together. It’s not an issue. Aramis will probably sit apart, and if he doesn’t want to, then Athos doesn’t mind either; there doesn’t seem any cause for concern, until Athos glances over at Aramis himself.

Aramis has gone pale. For a second Athos doesn’t understand why, then he remembers:

Aramis hates planes.

Aramis _despises_ planes.

Not to mention that, on occasion, Aramis throws up on planes. Or so Porthos has told him.

Awkwardness or not, there is no way that Athos is going to let Aramis sit apart for this; he’ll volunteer, if he needs to, to afford Aramis the dignity of only panicking in front of friends, at least.

But before Athos has to say anything, d’Artagnan seems to read the situation. “I’ll sit with Joel,” he offers, and goes to take the empty seat by the aforementioned poly sci teacher.

Porthos turns to Aramis. They’re up in the slightly-more-open area by the bathroom, so they can stand in a huddle, rather than in a line.

“Still best in the middle?” Porthos asks, voice low.

Aramis nods.

“’kay. Athos? Aisle or window?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Great. Call aisle, then. Athos in the window an’ you in between us, okay, Ar? You take your Dramamine?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Good. Less than three hours an’ we’re landin’, okay?”

“Mm. Porthos?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve really fucking missed you,” Aramis whispers, so quietly that Athos almost doesn’t hear. “Can we please be done being-- whatever we’ve been?”

Porthos regards Aramis without expression for a moment, then a smirk comes over his face. “You sayin’ that so it’s less awkward when you puke on me?”

Aramis smiles, a little helplessly. “Sure?” he offers, shrugging one shoulder.

Porthos laughs, and slings an arm around Aramis; Aramis sags against him.

“Aw!” somebody coos, from behind them. “They missed each other!”

Porthos, never one to miss out on a show, squeezes Aramis to him and smacks a kiss on his head. A few kids giggle.

Aramis looks as though he wants to cry, but he does not look sad, precisely.

The three of them get to their seats. Athos goes in first, slides the shade open once he’s buckled; the sun is only just beginning to rise. Aramis settles beside him, and Porthos on the aisle.

And it feels so good, and he’s missed it so much, that Athos sort of wants to cry too.

Takeoff is rough; so is the climb. Aramis discretely pulls the air sickness bag from the pocket in front of him, lays it flat in his lap, and runs his thumb across it as though it were the corner of a beloved quilt. He falls asleep before he needs it, though. Porthos relaxes, nods over at Athos, then settles in with a book of Sudoku.

Most of the kids sleep on the plane; the rest are well-behaved. All that follows, though, is chaos: lost luggage at the carousel, arguments over pre-arranged room assignments, not enough space on the shuttle to the hotel. It’s almost noon before Athos and the others finally make their way to their own room, with less than an hour to unpack and relax before their group meeting out by the pool.

Even one minute seems like heaven. Athos would, at this point, take _ten seconds_ to sit down, were it all he was offered.

They tumble into the air conditioning. Athos claims the window bed, on the window side; Porthos automatically puts his suitcase next to Athos’, but Athos waves at him dismissively.

“Go,” he orders. “Cuddle with him, we all know you want to.”

Porthos might blush a little then, but he also quite immediately moves his suitcase to the other bed and lies down. Aramis flops down beside him. There is the slightest moment of hesitation-- and that’s new, that wouldn’t’ve happened before-- but within seconds they have moved beyond it. Aramis is reclined against the pillows. Porthos’ head is on Aramis knee; there’s a look of pure bliss on his face, as Aramis absently thumbs across his hairline.

D’Artagnan chuckles as he puts his bag next to Athos’. “I wonder if any of my teachers, like, cuddled on senior trip.”

“Where’d you go?” Aramis asks. “On the west coast, and all.”

“Um, Lake Tahoe. It was pretty close, like, we didn’t have to fly. But we spent a week up there. It was cool. What about you guys?”

“Disneyworld,” Aramis snorts.

“Disneyworld,” Athos echoes.

“’sthat like an east coast thing?”

“I suppose.”

“What about you, Porthos?” d’Artagnan asks; he is, occasionally, as thoughtless as any other twenty-five-year-old.

But Porthos doesn’t seem to take any offense. “Remember how I was, like, dirt poor?” he says, and Aramis smooths a hand over his hair.

D’Artagnan blinks, sits down on the bed for something to do. “Oh, yeah,” he mumbles.

Porthos smiles. “’sokay. ‘swhy I really appreciate how hard our district works to send our kids. We do a lot of stuff wrong, but we do this right. Fundraise for it startin’ when the kids are freshmen. This year they only hadda pay, what, like a hundred dollars plus spending money? ‘course some of them can’t afford that still, but it’s good. It’s a li’l bit of normalcy. Crash Disneyworld like all the white kids.”

Aramis bops him on the head. “I,” he intones, “am not white.”

“Crash Disneyworld like all the middle class kids,” Porthos corrects, smoothly.

Athos sits on the bed beside d’Artagnan, observes the room; the decorations are horrifically Old West themed, but it’s clean and large and the beds are comfy. There’s a sink outside the bathroom, next to the closet. There’s a TV, too, and a night table shared between the two beds.

“All right,” Athos says, in what Porthos calls his _I’ll-be-a-principal-someday_ voice. “We’ve got the park passes. They get those today, for the whole trip. They get one meal card per day, but we’ll give those out by the day, so they don’t blow them all at once.”

“An’ we gotta make sure they get the smaller ones today,” Porthos adds, and Athos nods.

“Four groups of chaperones, each taking a turn at one of four locations. Students should have saved our numbers in their phones by now, but we might want to give them out again at the meeting.”

“What are our days, again?” Aramis asks, and Athos rolls his eyes.

“The rest of the today and tomorrow, Animal Kingdom and Hollywood Studios. Wednesday, Epcot. Thursday is our day to stay behind at the hotel, and Friday, Magic Kingdom.”

“Mm, Thursday,” d’Artagnan sighs. “Gonna be in that pool all day.”

“Do you remember last time we chaperoned,” Aramis says, poking Porthos’ forehead, “and Jackie and Destiny had fakes and snuck into that lounge?”

“Why would you remind me of that?” Porthos groans. “Why?”

“Should we be a little early?” d’Artagnan asks, and they all agree.

They wait around the pool for the kids to arrive; remarkably they are almost all on time, and those who are late are late by minutes only. The other chaperones join them. As a groups, they run down rules and schedules, field questions, conduct the mandatory three-minute lecture on responsibility, then hand out the park passes.

Then the kids are free to go their own way. It’s always a bit of a disconcerting moment, but also a relieving one; for all the prep and all the possible disasters, much of chaperoning senior trip is just wandering Disneyworld, being available to answer your cell phone.

It’s actually kind of nice, really.

The chaperones mingle a minute or two more, then split up to their assignments for the day. D’Artagnan turns, game face on.

“All right. So, we’re covering two parks, right? Are they smaller or something?”

“Closer together,” Aramis supplies.

“Okay. Two of us at each? We could switch off tomorrow?”

“Honestly, pup, spreadin’ the chaperones out is just kinda habit.” Porthos shrugs. “If it’s a real emergency, there’s employees who would handle it. An’ any trouble the kids wanna cause, they’re gonna do that at night. Just keep your cell phone on, an’ it’ll be fine.”

“So-- we’re not splitting up? Which one do we go to, then?”

“You choose,” Aramis tells him, smiling. “Your first time here, right?”

So they go to Animal Kingdom. D’Artagnan, twenty-five-year-old d’Artagnan, lights up like a kid on Christmas, and drags them all over the park. At first it’s just selfies and snacks and looking at animals.

Then suddenly they’re in front of a massive roller coaster.

D’Artagnan grins, rounds on them.

It has come up in conversation before, casually, their feelings on roller coasters. Athos knows that Aramis would puke his guts up ten seconds in. Porthos alternates between saying he doesn’t like heights and saying he doesn’t want to leave Aramis alone, though privately Athos wonders if he’s worried about fitting in the seats. Athos isn’t quite sure how fat is _that_ fat. Regardless he doesn’t have much interest himself-- though how often is one in Disneyworld? Actually, the ride looks kind of exciting.

Sensing their general attitude, d’Artagnan frowns. “It’s no fun alone,” he wheedles, gesturing at the enormous mountain-shaped structure before them.

“I’ll go.”

D’Artagnan’s face breaks into a grin. “Yeah? Great!”

It takes Athos half a second to work out that he’s the one who’s volunteered. Porthos and Aramis are giggling. He glares at them and, hoping he hasn’t just made a massive mistake, goes with d’Artagnan to join the line.

As they get closer and closer Athos feels more and more anxious. He can’t remember the last time he’s been on a roller coaster-- literally can’t remember-- and this one looks really quite big and fast and it’s named after an actual mountain on which many people have died.

He knows, logically, that he isn’t going to die.

He’s really much more worried about the French fries he just ate making a reappearance.

But d’Artagnan is bouncing and chatting happily. Athos is not going to disappoint him, he’s just not, because disappointing d’Artagnan is like kicking an actual puppy.

Eventually they make it to the front of the line. D’Artagnan climbs in first, in the next-to-last seat in the row, leaving Athos to take the end. Had he less pride, he might ask the boy to switch with him. He’s not going to _fall out_ , because these things are _safe_ , and _thousands_ of people ride them every day-- still he really wants somebody, something, between himself and the nothingness.

Too bad. Athos glances over at d’Artagnan, who is grinning hugely; he catches Athos’ eye, gives a thumbs up.

Then the ride starts.

For a second they’re only going forward-- then they’re going up.

Then they’re going down down _down_ , up again, down again.

All very _fucking_ quickly.

D’Artagnan is screaming-- a shrill, stupid, joyous scream. Athos keeps his mouth closed because if he starts he’ll never stop.

His eyes are closed, too. Then they start going _backwards_ , down but _backwards_ , and he peeks his eyes open but everything’s pitch black anyway, so he closes them again.

D’Artagnan is in veritable peals of laughter.

More up, more down down _down_ , and then, unexpectedly, they level out; the cars glide to a halt.

They get off.

Athos’ knees feel like Jell-o and his ears are ringing; he isn’t nauseous, per se, and yet he’s pretty sure if somebody aimed him at a trash can now and told him to puke he’d probably be able to do so.

D’Artagnan is laughing again. It takes a moment for Athos to process that he’s laughing at him.

“All right?” he asks, as they come out of the exit, and Athos nods.

“Good,” he croaks, just as they reach the bench.

Porthos and Aramis are cheerfully eating Mickey Mouse-shaped ice cream pops; they scooch apart, and Athos collapses to the seat between them. He puts his head in his hands.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan actually sounds worried now. “You didn’t have to--”

“That was,” Athos grinds out, dizziness coming over him as he lifts his head, “ _very_ fun.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Wanna do another?”

“Hell no,” Athos barks, and d’Artagnan giggles. “At least not right now. Give my stomach an hour to figure out where the rest of me’s gone and ask me then.”

“But you really liked it?” he wheedles.

“Yes,” Athos assures him. “I really did. Christ, I haven’t been on a roller coaster since I was-- younger than you are, I think. _Oh_. Aramis, how would you feel about me throwing up on your shoes?”

“I’m against it.”

“Fair enough.”

It’s at this point, of course, that a pack of students comes across them. Athos sits up just in time to catch their approach.

“Hey all!” Dana chirps.

“Hey, Dana,” Porthos replies. “You girls havin’ a good time?”

“The best. Is-- um-- is Mister LaFere okay?”

Aramis and d’Artagnan burst out laughing, and Athos feels himself smile too.

“My young colleague here talked me into riding Expedition Everest,” he explains, waving vaguely at d’Artagnan, who’s still chuckling.

“I freaking loved Everest!” Lesly exclaims.

“Yes, well, it nearly deprived you of a history teacher. If not quite.”

The girls giggle now too. Despite the sloshing in his guts and head Athos is still smiling, easily at that, and they all chat a few more minutes before the students depart.

“Reapply your sunscreen!” Athos calls after them. They give him the familiar look that means he’s just said something really white.

“All right,” Porthos says, clapping his thighs. “’nother ride? More food?”

“Sitting,” Athos groans. “Another five minutes at least. Then-- maybe the safari?”

“ _Safariii_ ,” d’Artagnan repeats, quietly, and Athos closes his eyes for a second and thinks about how happy he is.

*

Tuesday and Wednesday go much the same way. D’Artagnan is little more than a jubilant toddler; Aramis and Porthos mostly sit, quietly reacquainting themselves with one another. Athos is contented just to be amongst his friends. D’Artagnan gets him on another few roller coasters-- he tries to set a limit of one a day, and does not succeed-- and the four of them together go on a few of the innocuous rides. Porthos is especially fond of Figment.

In Epcot, half the attractions are themed after scientific exploration, and half after countries around the world; the four of them have an epic, two-on-two battle of STEM teachers versus humanities teachers that culminates in dinner in France followed by a ride on Spaceship Earth.

Then Thursday comes, and it’s their turn to stay back at the hotel. This is probably the assignment with the most responsibility, because anyone staying back at the hotel is probably not feeling well, and more likely to require assistance. But as of breakfast, all of the students are fine and headed to the parks. So really, Athos doesn’t mind; despite all the fun, or possibly because of it, he’s exhausted and sore, and looking forward to a day of quiet lounging.

They all go back to the room after breakfast. Athos has just found an extremely comfortable position on the bed when Aramis disappears into the bathroom and comes back in swim trunks. Within a minute, d’Artagnan is changed as well. Athos sighs, gives in, and changes into his swim trunks; Porthos goes last, wearing a t-shirt as well as his swim trunks, and Athos rubs his back as he happens to pass by. Porthos flashes him a smile.

They head out to the pool and spend a few hours swimming and sunbathing before Athos decides he’s had his fill. All is well, he’s just exhausted. He bids them all farewell and heads back to the room, where he rinses off and hangs his trunks up to dry. Then, contented by the silence, he flops into bed.

He sprawls out, wearing nothing but boxers, and slips into a pleasantly air-conditioned doze.   
Sometime later he’s woken by Porthos and Aramis bursting through the door, letting in the sound of rain for just a moment. 

“Fucking pouring,” Aramis announces, as Athos blinks awake. Aramis finds a towel and begins to dry his hair. 

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Athos asks, a little blearily. 

“Out in it,” Porthos says, with a shrug. “No lightning. Figured, let ‘im do his thing.”

“Mm,” Aramis sighs. “I love the smell of chlorine.”

“Weird,” Porthos tells him, and goes into the bathroom to shower. A few minutes later he and Aramis are both rinsed off and wearing t-shirts and sweats, and the three of them flip on the TV and start scrolling through the channels.

Then the door opens again, and in tumbles d’Artagnan. The air conditioned air hits his wet skin, and he gives a full body shudder. “ _Jesus,_ it’s cold in here!” he yelps, slamming the door. “How aren’t you all freezing?”

“Because we got out of the rain,” Porthos replies.

“Mm,” d’Artagnan grunts, rummages in his suitcase, then disappears into the bathroom.

He reappears a minute later with scruffed-up hair, in running shorts and a faded sweatshirt. Nudging Athos, who’s spread across the whole bed, he burrows immediately under the blankets. 

Even with both blankets around him he moans pathetically. Aramis balls up the other bed’s comforter and throws it over to Athos, who spreads it over the boy and pats it down around his edges to form a giant d’Artagnan burrito. 

A minute later he’s stopped shivering; soon after he’s asleep. Porthos and Aramis go back to the TV, and Athos, suddenly chilly by suggestion, peels up the edge of the topmost blanket and wriggles underneath. 

He doesn’t sleep again, but he does close his eyes. D’Artagnan is breathing steadily and across the room the other two are arguing without heat about what to watch; Athos finds himself uncommonly relaxed and just lies there, enjoying it. 

And maybe he does sleep again, because at some point he wakes up. When he does, there is somebody warm and familiar beside him, and he feels safe and calm. For a split second he is home, next to Porthos. But then he opens his eyes-- and he’s next to d’Artagnan, in the bed of a Disneyworld hotel.

Well, that’s nice too.

He doesn’t quite remember making his way fully underneath all the covers, but he has, and he doesn’t mind. D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to mind, either. He’s awake, and laughs quietly when Athos yawns.

“Too’ a nap,” Athos slurs.

“Mm. We both did.”

Athos cranes his head over his shoulder, sees the other bed empty. “Where’s-- mm--”

“I think they went back to the pool. The rain’s stopped. I’m-- mm. I’m really comfortable right now. Do we have to move?”

“No.”                                                                    

“You don’t have a shirt on, though. I’m not saying it’s awkward; it’s just a little funny.”

Athos scowls, without real anger, and tugs one of the sheets away, tucking it around his bare chest. “Better?”

D’Artagnan doesn’t answer; instead he shimmies closer and, quite unapologetically, cuddles up to Athos. He sighs, goes still.

“Mm. You okay?” Athos murmurs.

“Mm-hm.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What’s, um. What’s the manliest way to say, I just haven’t been cuddled in fucking forever?”

“There is not a manly way to say that.”

“Yeah.”

Athos tucks an arm around d’Artagnan’s back, smirking to himself as the boy gives an undignified little chirp and presses his forehead to Athos’ shoulder. “I haven’t been cuddled since the last time you cuddled me. Things haven’t been going well with Constance.”

Athos’ stomach sinks. For all d’Artagnan’s honesty, his openness, there are parts of his life he doesn’t really talk about much. Constance is one of them.

“Is she still--?”

“Married? Yeah. Actually, I don’t-- I know I brought it up, but I don’t actually want to talk about it. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Athos promises, and rubs a thumb over d’Artagnan’s shoulder blade.

Porthos and Aramis come back soon after. Aramis promptly snaps a picture of Athos and d’Artagnan cuddling, while Porthos just smiles at them, softly. They’re both dressed in normal clothes-- must have been out walking, not swimming. What’s more, they both look calm and content, and Athos feels the Porthos-shaped knot of worry in his belly ease a little more.

D’Artagnan gets up then, gets properly dressed. It’s late for lunch but early for dinner; still they’re all pretty hungry, so they head to the hotel cafeteria for food.

After dinner, they stay out by the pool. D’Artagnan and Porthos stick their feet in, while Aramis and Athos sit under a palm tree and slap mosquitos. Kids wander past, bemoaning the end of the trip. When it finally gets dark, when the mosquito bites finally surmount their patience, they head back to the room and pack their bags.

Room check is early tonight, at 9:30, to ensure the kids have time to pack too. They make their rounds, and are just coming back to the room and flopping down on their beds as the clock goes ten.

Athos’ alarm goes off.

D’Artagnan swipes the phone with a smooth, unmediated motion. “What’s the witching hour?” he asks, smirking.

“The witching hour’s midnight,” Aramis replies immediately, and Athos feels Porthos’ eyes on him from across the room.

 _The Witching Hour_ is what, in a fit of pique, he’d named his 10:00pm reminder alarm.

He’s certainly had to think more about the Prozac, this week. But every day so far he’s kept an eye on the clock well enough to go to the bathroom, take his pills, silence his alarm, and return with total nonchalance.

Athos takes the phone from d’Artagnan. He turns it off, stands up, walks to his suitcase, and finds his pill bottle.

“Um,” he says, turning. “So. I’m on Prozac.”

Saying it feels really good. Feels insanely, incredibly wonderful, and he’s never thought such sincere relief could hit him so instantaneously. Whatever happens next. Whatever their reaction. Now everyone who’s anyone knows, and it feels incredible.

He’s still curious what their reaction will be, though.

Athos opens the bottle, dry-swallows his dosage, then returns the bottle and sits back down, very straight, on the bed.

The mattress dips, and then d’Artagnan’s hugging him. “Good for you,” he hums, into Athos’ hair, squeezing Athos’ waist.

Another shift in the mattress, this time from behind, and Athos feels the familiar warmth of Porthos’ hand rubbing his back.

“I thought you seemed a bit less-- saturnine than usual,” Aramis remarks.

“Saturnine?”

“Saturnine. You know.” Aramis joins them all on the bed. “ _Saturnine_ ,” he warbles, “ _you were waiting all this time, Saturnine-- how I’d love to make you mine_ \--”

“What?”

Instead of responding, Aramis tackles him. D’Artagnan goes down with him, not letting go, and Athos ends up with his head on Porthos’ belly, d’Artagnan curled up with him tightly and Aramis stroking his hair and continuing to sing, in his pleasantly raspy but slightly off-key voice.

Porthos starts laughing first, then Aramis, then d’Artagnan.

Then Athos.

“I’m proud of you,” Aramis tells him, when they’ve calmed down. “Really, I am. To an outsider it may seem like the easy way out but it definitely isn’t, and I give you all due credit.”

“The first few weeks were--”

“A bitch,” Porthos supplies, helpfully.

“A bitch,” Athos agrees. “I-- yes. As you can see, I-- I told Porthos. When I started. I’m sorry I didn’t--”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Aramis snaps, and Athos grins over at him. Then he nuzzles more comfortably against Porthos, and thumps d’Artagnan’s arm.

Then his phone goes off again, followed immediately by Porthos’. It’s not an alarm, but a text alert, and Athos gropes blindly at the top of the bed before lifting it up to read:

_hi Chaperones, its joseph_

_sorry to bother u but edgars having crazy dyarrea_

_can u come?_

Porthos, reading his own phone, bursts out laughing again. “Forgot we was chaperonin’ this shit,” he howls.

“I’ll go,” Aramis says, having read the text over Athos’ shoulder. “Two years of medical school should equip me to administer Imodium.”

“Way to spoil the moment,” d’Artagnan grumbles, still not letting Athos go.

Aramis wriggles his way out from the pile, Porthos going with him; in the end Athos is lying on the blankets in d’Artagnan’s arms.

“You’ve got me in bed again,” Athos remarks, as dryly as he can manage.

“I admire you a lot,” d’Artagnan says, not rising to the bait. “Just in case you don’t realize that. Athos, I genuinely admire you. And I’m here for you, okay?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I--”

“That is not,” d’Artagnan interrupts, “what I meant. At all. I meant exactly what I said. I’m here for you. End of sentence. End of story.”

*

The rest of the trip is a bit of a blur. The last day’s always intense: getting all the kids’ luggage together before the sun has even risen, checking them out of the hotel, getting the luggage in storage while the kids head to the park for one last day. They let them stay as long as possible before rounding them up and getting them to the airport. Then it’s another flight-- another panicking Aramis, another fiasco at the baggage carousel-- and then, around two in the morning Saturday morning, Athos and Porthos tumble in their front door and collapse on the sofa.

“Thank God,” Porthos whispers, with genuine reverence. “Thank God we do this the week before spring break. I wouldn’t survive. I’d call in sick Monday.”

“You would’n’,” Athos slurs.

“I would.”

“Can we just-- sleep here?”

Porthos groans an affirmative response, but despite this gets up a few minutes later and stumbles down the hallway. The shower turns on in the distance. Athos dozes until it turns off, takes a three-minute shower himself, then falls into bed with the intention to sleep _forever_.

 *

Spring break is bliss.

D’Artagnan’s around more than he’s not, in the garden and on the couch and in the kitchen, almost as much of a fixture as Porthos. Aramis comes over, too. Porthos had told him in Florida, he later related to Athos, and Aramis arrives one night with two bottles of wine and more or less gives them his blessing.

Athos isn’t quite sure that Aramis understands the situation. Still it’s nice to have everything out in the open, everyone together again, even if only once in a while.

When they’re left on their own, Athos and Porthos watch _Firefly_. It takes until Wednesday to get through the series, then first thing Thursday morning they watch _Serenity_.

At the final scenes they both cry like babies. Athos tries to play it cool for a few minutes but Porthos, never impressed by such attempts, coos and cuddles him and wipes big drippy tears from the sides of his nose. Suddenly shy, though he doesn’t know what of, Athos hides against Porthos’ chest.

Break isn’t nearly long enough-- it never is-- but the first time in year Athos actually feels somewhat _rested_.

*

And then it’s the marathon to June. No, not even a marathon-- a triathlon-- of keeping up with grading and keeping on top of behavior and getting enough sleep to manage the first two.

Still, it’s team triathlon, if there even if such a thing. And even in the sloggiest weeks of the year Athos has support.

One Friday night in late April he doesn’t feel well. His stomach kind of hurts and his head _definitely_ hurts, and he turns down an offer to go out with Porthos and his math department friends to get dinner for somebody’s birthday. It’s been a crappy day, and a long week.

At home he takes a shower, towels off, and immediately realizes what he wants. He wants Porthos-- failing that, he wants one of Porthos’ shirts. He puts on boxers, then goes into Porthos’ bedroom and finds a soft navy t-shirt with a hole at the collar; he pulls it over his head and instantly feels a little better.

Already in Porthos’ room, it’s not much of a stretch to curl up on Porthos’ bed.

He wakes sometime later to the sound of quiet laughter; when he opens his eyes he finds Porthos staring down at him, arms crossed.

Athos groans, rolls halfway onto his back. “Howwus dinner?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“Good.” Porthos puts one knee on the bed. “Went to the Mexican place on Union. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Athos says, and yawns.

“‘kay. I’m gonna shower then I think I’m gonna have another drink, if you wanna join me.”

Athos shakes his head. His stomachache is gone and his headache has faded, and he’s loathe to reawaken either of them. Porthos is curative. Even the suggestion of Porthos, the lingering presence of his quietude, has done wonders.

Athos dozes to the sound of the shower running. Napping felt wonderful at the time, but in the end he’s pretty sure it condemned him to a night of feeling drowsy right up until bedtime. Oh well.

When he hears the shower shut off, he hauls himself up and makes Porthos’ bed (Porthos’ bed is always made) before going into the kitchen. He’s chopping veggies for an omelette when Porthos comes in. The scents of eucalyptus and spearmint enter with him, and Athos sniffs the air unashamedly.

“I love the way your soap smells.”

“You know you’re welcome to use it,” Porthos remarks, over his shoulder, as he cranes his neck around to examine the contents of the pantry. “I want somethin’, but I dunno what. Hm.”

He opens the fridge-- Athos sneaks his arm under Porthos’ to grab the eggs-- and stands staring while Athos heats the pan for his omelette. When Athos looks up again, Porthos is making himself a cheese plate.

“Cheddar?” Porthos prompts, holding it out. “For your, mm?”

“For my _mm_?”

“For your omelette.”

“Is there mozzarella?”

“Mm-hm,” Porthos hums, and reaches back into the fridge for it. He hands the plastic tub to Athos; there’s only a few small pearls left.

“D’you want these?” Athos asks, happy when Porthos shakes his head.

“It’s a sharp cheese night,” he replies, smartly, and Athos rinses the mozzarella and adds it to his omelette just before he’s ready to fold it.

They migrate into the living room, settle in to eat. Porthos makes a little tower of cheddar cubes, then begins eating them one by one with chopsticks.

Athos slices a bite off his omelette. It’s chock-full of veggies-- tomatoes and peppers and spinach and mushrooms, not to forget the pieces of fresh cheese-- and Athos remembers with an academic sort of curiosity how, before Porthos, his omelettes were little more than semi-circular scrambled eggs.

Before Porthos.

(Before Prozac.)

B.P.

No, that won’t do, Athos thinks absently; that’s that oil company that spilled a bunch of shit in the Gulf of Mexico.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Porthos asks.

“Oil spills,” Athos replies, honestly, and Porthos gives him an incredulous little smirk. Athos turns it right back around.

“Porthos?” he begins, innocently.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask the obvious?”

“What?”

“Why are you eating cheese with chopsticks?”

From the way that Porthos blinks up at him, Athos understands that this was not, in fact, an obvious question. “I felt like it?” Porthos offers, after a moment, and Athos nods his acceptance.

Living with Porthos has done wonders for him; not only that, but living with Porthos means he’s learned things that he didn’t know about his best friend.

Porthos is kind of fucking weird, for one.

In a fucking _delightful_ way.

And that’s not all he’s learned; for instance:

Porthos flosses _religiously_.

Porthos unplugs chargers that he’s not actively using.

Porthos microwaves his ice cream until it’s practically soup.

Porthos goes anywhere and everywhere barefoot, does not seem to mind how dirty this makes his feet.

Porthos doesn’t sleep well.

Most of these things make Athos want to laugh, but the last one just about breaks his heart.

He notices it bit by bit. Mornings when Porthos is awake before him, though generally he sleeps as late as he can; tea in the sink that wasn’t there when they went to bed, as though someone’s been up in the middle of the night.

He learns it officially, though, the last Wednesday in April. Sometime in the dark of night his bedroom door cracks open, and Athos fights through the haze of sleep to realize it must be Porthos.

“Wha--?”

“Sorry,” Porthos whispers. The hall light makes a halo around his body, reducing him to a familiar silhouette. “Can I come in a min’?”

“Mm. Y’okay?”

“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Porthos reaches out to turn off the hall light, and for a moment Athos is blind. His eyes adjust in time to see Porthos perch on the edge of the bed.

Athos grunts, pulls him to lie down; it’s not as though they haven’t shared a bed before. It takes a minute. But then Porthos lets himself under the blankets and curls up facing Athos.

“Is this okay?”

“Mm,” Athos hums.

“Jus’ been havin’ weird dreams, all night,” Porthos mumbles, and Athos forces his eyes open again. “Nothin’ terribly. Jus’ got me kinda shaky.”

Athos reaches out to test this statement, takes Porthos’ hand-- and no, he’s not shaking, but beneath Athos’ fingertips his pulse is like a jackhammer.

“T’ll me?” Athos offers.

“Nah. Really was nothin’. No real reason. Just anxious.” He shimmies a little closer. “I feel better now. That’s that thing, that havin’ somebody t’tell thing. Back on my own I’d probably just’ve gotten up for the day.”

“Timezit?”

“Bit after two.”

“Mm,” Athos says. He closes the last bit of distance, scrambling all four of their hands and forearms together and hooking a foot over Porthos’ ankle. Then he forces his eyes open, again.

Porthos chuckles. “Go back t’sleep, lovely. ‘m okay now.”

And Athos does not hear the next thing he says, if he says anything at all.

*

When the alarm goes off, Athos wakes to find his head on Porthos’ chest; Porthos himself is sleeping so deeply that he merely grunts. Athos takes Porthos’ hand, squeezes. It was just his intention to steady him while he rocked him awake with the other hand, but at the pressure Porthos opens his eyes.

“Morning,” Athos whispers, in a way he hopes is soothing.

“Hey.”

“Can I do anything?” Athos offers, rubbing a thumb over Porthos’ palm. “To help?”

“Help wi’ what?”

“Your-- um.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, and hauls himself upright. “Yeah, sorry. Hope I didn’t spook ya.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Athos says, not quite sure about the turn they’ve taken. “I just wasn’t sure-- what to do.”

“Jus’ a nightmare.” Porthos shrugs. “Always seems worse in the dark, y’know?”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It’s just a dream.” He’s frowning a little now, but continues anyway. “I, um-- I’m runnin’, y’know? Not feelin’ so hot. I get to this place, like a hospital but, like, horror movie version, right? And this doctor comes out, flippin’ a chart-- tells me my fever’s too high. Tells me it’ll bring my temperature up to normal-- tells me I’ll come back to life if it keeps risin’. So I run away again, but I can feel myself gettin’ hotter an’ hotter-- feelin’ sicker an’ sicker an’ my blood is kinda comin’ out-- an’ then I wake up.”

“What the fuck,” Athos breathes.

Porthos shrugs. “‘s not the worst one I have. Just the one I have the most. They’re just anxiety dreams.”

Before Athos’ eyes it’s as though Porthos goes from a duck to a bunny, a woman at a mirror to the outline of a skull. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay okay?”

Porthos laughs. “Like, do I need therapy kind of thing? Probably. Eventually. Does anybody not, when it gets down to it?”

“Sometimes I feel like the whole world is-- broken,” Athos murmurs. “Like, I can’t understand how anybody could not be sad all the time. And sometimes I feel like the only one.”

“Truth is somewhere in between, lovely,” Porthos sighs. “As usual. Truth be told, I think it’s in between for a lot of people too, y’know, jus’ in an’ of themselves.”

“How often do you have-- anxiety dreams?”

Porthos shrugs. “Not often in a calm week. More nights than not in a stressful one.”

Athos struggles not to sputter. “You-- always come in here, all right? Always. I don’t care about-- whatever. Porthos, you always come in here if you need it. And if you’re feeling anxious before bed, then you come in and just start out here.”

Porthos blinks a few times before hauling himself out of bed. “It’s late. We need to get movin’.”

“Does it-- did what I said just now bother you?”

Porthos turns back around, arms snug around his ribs. “No. Didn’t bother me. ‘m just-- you know me. Heart on m’sleeve. Drop a hat an’ I’ll cry you a river. But I don’t-- really-- um. Very often. I don’t really talk about that kinda thing.”

And Athos thinks-- draws a line for the first time between two men, crying their eyes out on their best friend’s shoulder, on the living room floor, a few months apart. Porthos felt like hell. Porthos dropped a glass, had a fever. Or Porthos, like Athos, just had a whole lot of shit rattling around inside and needed to wash it out. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Athos promises. “But if you want to, just go ahead. And even if you don’t, come in whenever.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything, but with his smile, he hardly needs to.

*

Porthos doesn’t come in that night, or the next. But on Saturday night Athos wakes to the sound of his door opening, and a tall, thick shadow against the white of the hallway lights.

“Hey,” Athos says; Porthos says nothing. And in a sudden flash of interpersonal insight, Athos understands, and simply peels back the blankets. 

Porthos sighs. Then he flips the light off, and in the darkness Athos feels him crawl under the blankets, shimmy himself comfortable, and go still. Athos moves a little closer, and falls asleep. 

*

Porthos comes in the next night, too, and on Monday he gets there before Athos has even shut of the lights.

“Can I--?”

“Of course.”

“You shouldn’t let me.”

“Why not?”

“A’ this rate you’ll never get rid of me,” Porthos mutters, and frowns unhappily as he climbs into bed. Athos turns the lights off, and does not reply.

Porthos wakes up crying that night; or, more precisely, Athos wakes up to find Porthos sitting against the headboard, sobbing into his hands. He doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t answer Athos’ questions. So in the end all Athos can do is settle beside him, hook their arms together, and lay his head on Porthos’ shoulder.

Porthos falls asleep, eventually, still upright. It’s a deep enough sleep that he doesn’t really wake when Athos coaxes him back to a supine position.

Athos, though, does not sleep again for a long while. He lays his head on Porthos’ chest, lays a hand on Porthos’ belly, and keeps him close and warm and safe.

He barely moves during the night. When they wake Athos’ fingers still rest on Porthos’ stomach, two tips just skimming his the crack of skin between his hem and waistband. His belly is soft, and striped down the middle with downy black hair.

“I need your help,” Athos whispers, not looking Porthos in the eye.

“Okay.”

“I need you to pretend, for a second, that I know what to say. Because I don’t. I don’t know what to say, Porthos. But I want to help you and I want to be there for you and I need your brain to translate that into something a bit more eloquent. If possible.” Athos lifts his head, meets Porthos’ eyes at last. “You cried last night. Do you remember?”

“Why wouldn’t I remember?”

“I was almost hoping you were asleep. Was it-- a dream? Or something that-- Porthos, I’m just worried for you.”

And Porthos, wonderful Porthos, smiles up at him. “Don’t be worried for me, lovely. Hand to heart. I sleep like shit, if you must know. Have for-- Jesus, since college. I can’t fall asleep, I can’t stay asleep, an’ when I do sleep I have nightmares like crazy.”

It’s a punch right in Athos’ guts. “I thought maybe-- sleeping here-- would help.”

“It does. Lovely, it does help. It just-- doesn’t stop ‘em. But-- I wake up alone and it’s like I can’t get out of it. Like I’m stuck in that space. But I wake up an’ see you an’ it’s like-- oh, there you are, so here I am. I’m in bed, an’ it’s the middle of the night, an’ maybe I’m still scared or shaky but I know it’s not real. I see you and I know I’m safe.”

*

It only takes a few more days for this to segue into the two of them just honestly sharing the master bedroom. Athos’ room becomes their room. Porthos’ room returns to being the guest room, the room that d’Artagnan crashes in when he’s too drunk to drive home, the room that Porthos sleeps in one more time, when the thinks he might be coming down with a stomach bug. (Just ate too much, in the end, and Athos cuddles him extra the next night to make up for it.)

And for the first time Athos knows what it’s like to sleep beside somebody, to wake up beside somebody, to feel the heat of another body in the blankets and know, without conscious thought, that it’s safe and it’s supposed to be that way.

He talks to Porthos as he drifts to sleep. He pokes Porthos’ toes with his own, getting scratched sometimes for his efforts. He rubs Porthos’ back, and Porthos finger-combs his hair.

And maybe it’s Porthos, or Prozac, or getting older-- or maybe it’s all of them combined-- but the crags and corners of Athos’ soul are crumbling away, bit by bit, and there’s a _castle_ underneath--

Though some pieces still need to fall.

*

It’s May 28. D’Artagnan’s over, because when is he not, working in the garden with no shoes on and his hair in a ponytail. There’s something wrong with the tomatoes. Athos hasn’t been able to troubleshoot it himself, so he’s called in the expert. (And d’Artagnan loves being the expert.)

Rather than playing apprentice, though, Athos finds himself simply watching from the steps. D’Artagnan looks determined, and content. Right now he’s on his phone and seems to be comparing pictures on it to the leaves of the plants in front of him. He cracks his neck from time to time. He never seems compelled to stretch his legs out, though, despite the fact that he’s been folded up in the garden all morning.

Athos leans his head on the railing and lets himself stare.

Eventually d’Artagnan gets to his feet, stretches massively, and comes over.

“Hey.” The step creaks as d’Artagnan plops down beside him. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I think it’s septoria. But that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“No?”

“Is everything okay?”

A year ago he would’ve said it was; for many May 28ths now he’s done his best to ignore the date completely. 

“Mostly,” Athos mumbles. 

“Mostly,” d’Artagnan repeats, cocking an eyebrow.

Athos looks up at him, gives him a shaky smile. “More or less.”

D’Artagnan slings an arm around his shoulders. “You wanna tell me ‘bout the less?”

It’s still and cool in the backyard; d’Artagnan’s bare feet are joyfully dirty. 

“Tommy would have been thirty-five today,” Athos murmurs.

“Your little brother?”

Athos nods, and puts his head down on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. A breeze blows across them, pushes Athos’ hair back from his forehead. 

“No surprise you’re a teacher,” d’Artagnan says, after they’ve sat this way a while. 

“Mm?”

“Been a big brother your whole life.”

And Athos wasn’t going to cry, he really wasn’t, but d’Artagnan’s words settle around him like a blanket and a tear trickles down the side of his nose. He wipes the trail away, not bothering to disguise the motion. 

D’Artagnan bundles him closer and presses a big, uninhibited kiss to his forehead.

“Do you wanna make a cake?”

Athos snuffles, puts his head up. “What?”

“When I was little, my dad and I always made a cake on my mom’s birthday.” Suddenly he colors a little. “Looking back on it, I dunno if that was weird or not.”

“No, that sounds-- nice. Let’s do that.”

D’Artagnan smiles, tips their heads together. “Where’s Porthos? Porthos!”

The sliding door into the house opens and Porthos stares down at them; he takes a long look at Athos, then frowns at d’Artagnan as though he’ll have the answers. “What’s up?”

Athos takes a deep breath, lets it out, and says, “it would have been my brother’s birthday today so we’re going to make a birthday cake.”

“All right,” Porthos agrees, and pulls them each to their feet.

In the kitchen Athos feels the first tendrils of panic, and grief, and nausea, but Porthos and Charlie are there, Porthos and Charlie are there, so he’s okay.

He’s okay.

“Awright,” Porthos booms. “Cake! What are we thinkin’? Chocolate? Vanilla?”

Athos thinks a minute.

“Chocolate on chocolate.”

“Double chocolate! Fancy or not-so-fancy?”

“Um. Not-so-fancy.”

“You were waitin’ for me t’be offended, werencha?” Porthos laughs, and Athos nods. “Well, ‘m not. How about I make a nice, simple chocolate frosting, an’ you two handle the cake?”

Athos shakes himself a little. “No, let’s not go that plebeian. You make the cake part. I haven’t had box mix in for months now.”

“Great. I know just the recipe. You two can handle the frosting?”

“ _He_ can handle the frosting,” d’Artagnan clarifies. “And _I_ will lick the spoon.”

It’s not a daze that Athos falls into, precisely, but there’s a dizziness to the next few hours, a halo around the world like his fucking _soul_ is about to have a migraine, but he’s calm, too. He doesn’t remember taking the cake out of the oven, but now it’s frosted perfectly. He doesn’t remember texting Aramis to come over, but then Aramis is there, pizza boxes balanced on one hip, and Athos is can’t help but hug him right there on the doormat.

They set the table, devour the pizza. Then Porthos brings the cake over, a handful of candles it, and Athos blows them out with one steady breath.

“Happy birthday, Tom,” he whispers. His nose stings a little but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t need to: on his behalf, Porthos’ eyes are shining wetly, and d’Artagnan has shed an actual tear. 

Athos pulls a face at them. Porthos laughs, rubs his eyes, then comes to Athos’ side and hugs him securely against his stomach. They don’t break apart for a while. When they do, d’Artagnan crouches besides Athos’ chair and gives him another hug, followed closely by Aramis, while Porthos hugs d’Artagnan. 

The cake is magnificent. Athos puts on a pot of coffee, too-- the expensive kind, the one he saves for special occasions-- and they sit around the table for hours, talking about nothing over coffee and cake and, eventually, wine. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan go home around ten. He’s quite sure they would have spent the night if he’d asked them; all three of them would’ve piled into bed and held him, if he’d asked them. That makes it easier to do what he does next. 

Athos waits until Porthos is in the shower, then curls up in bed and lets himself cry-- alone, for the first time in a long time.

Alone not because he has to be, but because he wants to be. He cries for Tommy; he cries for the injustice of young death and the general injustice of the universe. He cries because he feels like crying. 

He’s finished by the time Porthos comes in, and cuddles up to his warmth, his shower-fresh smell; Porthos curls an arm around his waist and holds him close, and his hair drips a little onto Athos’ forehead. Athos sniffles, not bothering to hide the runny-nosed aftermath. Porthos runs a thumb over his cheek, along the side of his nose, although there are no tears left to dry and, surprisingly, Athos doesn’t feel like shedding any more. Instead he just closes his eyes and basks in the touch. 

“How you doin’?” Porthos asks, after a minute.

“Awful,” Athos croaks. “But, um. Awful in a normal way?”

“Awful in a normal way. I’ll take it, lovely.”

“Yeah,” Athos whispers. “Me too.”

*

A heatwave hits in the second week of June. Porthos devolves into abject _grumpiness_ , stomping around the house in boxers and t-shirts, taking cold showers twice a day, eating ice cream as though cows have gone extinct.

It’s hilarious. It’s also kind of annoying, not only because the thermostat is set so low that Athos is back in long sleeves, but because Porthos won’t cuddle. He won’t. In the past few months, cuddling with Porthos has become such a fact of life that Athos feels nothing short of bereft, and wonders if they might have to take a vacation to somewhere in the southern hemisphere once school’s out, just so he can get his fix.

And school will be out soon-- halle-fucking-lujah. Teaching is about a million times easier now that he isn’t simultaneously slogging his way through a wicked bout of clinical depression-- but that doesn’t mean it’s _easy_.

It’s still hard. He’s still tired.

He wants to push Porthos onto the couch and curl up in a ball in his fucking lap but Porthos says he’s too hot and wants to go out for water ice.

So they go out for water ice.

“Oh shit, it’s Tuesday,” Porthos says, as Athos drives them back home, eating his lemon ice straight from the cup while he steers one-handed.

“Yeah.”

“One week left! One week from now an’ we are _done_. What kind did you get?”

“Lemon.”

“So boring. You wanna try pear?”

The rest of the week is full of graduation rehearsals and finalizing grades, and, unlikely as it seems, it’s Friday before Athos knows it. That night he cranks up the AC and waits for Porthos to close his eyes. He’d realized, a few days in, that Porthos only _thinks_ he’s overheated; in fact, the AC has it down below seventy degrees in the house, and Porthos is just tricking himself. Thus, once he’s mostly asleep, he’ll cuddle as much as ever. Athos, feeling just the slightest bit devious about it, has learned to wait until they’ve been in bed fifteen or twenty minutes. Then he curls up next to Porthos, and is permitted to stay.

On Saturday morning he wakes up with his face in Porthos’ chest and his hand on Porthos’ belly, and thinks about summer.

Of course, there’s still graduation to get through. Athos cries a little during the ceremony, then cries a little more when Jennifer comes up to hug him in the hallway outside. Jen cries too, and her mother laughs and takes a picture of them. They hug again, and then Athos spots Porthos in the crowd and lets himself be swept away.

Porthos gets him in a quiet corner. He stands in front of him like a shield while Athos dries his eyes and blows his nose.

“You okay?” d’Artagnan asks, as he joins them.

“Of course. Why are you fussing? I always cry at graduation.”

“Usually you hide in the bathroom, though,” Porthos notes, and Athos can only shrug.

The last day of school is hot as hell, and chaotic and tedious simultaneously. Athos brings cookies. He lies to the kids that he made them himself, then passes them out and puts on a movie while he cleans his desk. Finally the last bell rings.

Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Aramis meet at Tir Na Nog, spend a few hours drinking and talking, then go their separate ways. Except Athos and Porthos, of course. Athos and Porthos go home, shower, and eat ice cream on the couch until Athos’ eyes start slipping shut. Then they go to bed.

In the morning Athos wakes to find Porthos stretched out beside him, reading on his kindle; he smiles over when he hears Athos shift.

“Mornin’, lovely.”

“Morning,” Athos breathes, cuddling up to him.

“Happy vacation. What d’you wanna do today?”

“This,” Athos huffs, feeling Porthos’ chest rise and fall beneath his hand, feeling the softness of Porthos’ upper arm beneath his cheek.

Porthos laughs. “All day?”

Athos closes his eyes, breathes deeply. “All _summer_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are! School has started again for us real-life teachers so I've had less time to write than I would like, but I hope you enjoy the conclusion to the story. And in case you feel like there are a few unanswered questions, know that I am planning a third story in the series (not immediately but hopefully not too far from now) so yeah. More on the way. I still have a few other fics to write too, though, so I may skip around a bit. Don't you wish you could get paid to write fanfic? Oh well. Thanks very much to all of you who read and especially those of you who left comments. They keep me going, let's be honest :)
> 
> ETA: out of curiosity, understanding that I'm not able to guarantee anything, which of my WOP's would you most like to see published next? They're all between 5k and 15k and hopefully will all come out at some point, but I don't know which to focus on...
> 
> 1) the third part of this series  
> 2) a prequel to _Honest Songs_  
>  3) a crossover with the show _Merlin_ in which Merlin accidentally causes Aramis and Lancelot to switch places  
>  4) a Lemay adventure that's hazy on plot ATM but has lots of Constance too


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